When Tristan wakes up on Saturday morning, he experiences a brief, fleeting moment of euphoria. The brief, fleeting moment that he's experienced every day for the last two weeks, until, all at once, he comes crashing back to reality.

The first time he had felt it, it felt like he was actually falling, plummeting through the sky so fast he couldn't breathe. Turns out it was a panic attack.

Tristan dislikes panic attacks, and is pretty sure most people who experience them probably feel the same way. But what he dislikes more is the fact that he's having them. Tristan has always been laid back. Sometimes described as too laid back.

So the fact that he has developed an anxiety disorder grates on his nerves. Or it would, if he admitted that he had one at all. Denial, apparently, is his new thing. It's working well.

Sort of.

That, and working his body to physical breaking points in order to feel things. Still, regardless of how hard he works during the day, he still lies awake at night for hours, staring at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. It's as though it's mocking him, and when he does slip into sleep, he knows what waits for him when he wakes.

The moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, where nothing has changed at all and everything is as it should be.

Tristan loves the moment. It lasts for just a split second, but for that one second, he feels ok. That's the high that he chases after these days.

It's what comes after the moment. The falling and the remembering and the realising, that he hates. It feels like everything comes back to that moment and, in his mind, he supposes that what he really wants is to go back in time. To when everything really was normal.

This is his normal now, and he isn't sure how he's supposed to cope.

He glances at his alarm clock and realises that he's slept later than he should. His shoulders crumple forwards as he realises that he needs to get moving. These days his body feels like lead, and as he steps into the shower, it takes everything in him to remain standing as his head leans against the cool tiles on the wall.

If he should sink to the floor, where he desperately wants to be, he faces the serious possibility that he might never get up again.

In memory of Tristan Belgrave, who was washed down the plughole and never seen again.

The thought doesn't make him laugh so much as want to cry.

He gets out feeling heavier and dresses quickly. It's frosty out, so he shoves on one of his more unsightly sweaters, knowing the heavy wool will protect him from the cold. Memories ding about inside his head as he runs his fingers through his curls.

They'll dry alright, or will freeze in the breeze, but that's fine.

It's not like he's got anyone to impress.

He pulls on a pair of old Levis and his trusty boots, shoving his phone and wallet into his pockets before shouting a hurried goodbye to his family. He has his headphones today, and he's determined to listen to some of the audiobook that, until now, has remained stuck on the same chapter for the last month.

Stuck. An adequate way to describe his entire life right now.

Tristan sucks his cheek, biting on the flesh there as he walks into the wind. He doesn't want to do this, or be here. He hates everything about this, and he knows that there's only one place he can go.

The walk is short and he knows it like the back of his hand. As he barrels into the coffee shop, the little bells jingle overhead and he sighs audibly at the warmth that is already thawing his icy mood. The scent is comforting, even now, and when he spots Jerome behind the counter he forces a smile.

"Hey Jer." He mumbles, already fishing out his wallet.

"Hey T, how are things?" The barista asks.

He looks worried, or maybe Tristan is paranoid these days. Either way, he lies.

"Yeah, good." He says.

The barista nods and Tristan tries not to find it condescending. Tristan duly taps his card against the reader, staring at the digital numbers instead of his friend's eyes.

"How are you? How're the family?" Tristan asks, wincing slightly. He feels guilty already, and asking just makes him feel worse. He's not been good to them. He's not been good to anyone recently.

"They're ok, decided to stay in Barbados for a bit longer." Jerome says easily and Tristan nods, watching the barista's almost mechanical movements. They look like a dance.

"I don't blame them, it's awful out there." Tristan says, glancing out the front windows. The double meaning of his words aren't lost on either of them.

"You could still go, you know? You have family out there, and everyone would love..."

Tristan shakes his head. It's a small movement, but it's enough to stop Jerome in his tracks.

"Well, the offer will always stand." He says, sliding Tristan's cup towards him.

Tristan smiles at the familiar sight of his favourite drink. He doesn't need to order when he comes here. He never orders anything else, a perpetual creature of habit.

Tristan clasps his drink and moves away quickly, sensing dangerous conversational territory if he should stay. He doesn't want to feel guilty and he doesn't want to talk, at least, not to anyone here. He moves towards his table but pauses when he spots a familiar face.

It's the mousy haired girl with the round glasses.

This week she's wearing an even more heinous outfit than last, consisting of a floral skirt and a pale mauve cardigan that looks at least a hundred years old. She's clutching her ratty tote bag with both hands, and once again, there are two coffee cups on the table.

He can feel his own cup trembling in his grasp and he takes a deep breath.

He doesn't want to sit with her again. It was too much last week, and he had hated every second of it. She's like his own personal mirror, her eyes reflecting everything he doesn't want to see in his own. But she's at his table, and he can't sit anywhere else. This is where he always sits and in a world where everything has been flipped upside down, he'll be damned if he gives up this.

He moves closer, hesitating by his chair and when she glances up, she doesn't seem to be surprised to see him. More...despairingly resigned. Like she had known he would always come. She nods, moving her coffee cups out of the way.

One is small, in a green mug. The other is in a rich brown mug, with a sprinkling of something on the top. It looks a lot like his. Tristan's stomach sinks at the sight of it all. It's so fucking depressing.

She clutches her drink with both of her hands, everything about her looking frail and small. She's sad to look at and he looks away quickly.

Instead, he fishes out his phone and headphones, and shoves them in his ears before he can change his mind. The first chapter is hard, and every line that makes him smile feels like hell, but as they go on, they seem to get easier.

At one point, he sees the girl opposite him fish out a book. It's a battered copy of Bleak House and he finds that it's an incredibly appropriate choice for someone who looks so hopeless. He also respects the choice, a Dickens fan himself.

He resigns himself to the fact that, while her choice in knitwear is truly dire, and her presence makes him sad, she has good taste in literature, and with her at the table, he feels just a little bit less like a loser.

A little bit less alone.