Best friend of mine?

It was both too late and too early to call anyone. It would be absurd.

Although, bearing that in mind, she would be out of bed. She never slept much during the night unless necessary. It was one of the quirky qualities that he liked in her.

He knew that if he were to stop himself from falling off the wagon he would need to go to her; and soon. But she was not an approachable person in that sense.

Yes, she cared but you were never quite sure.

He was comfortable with her, so comfortable that he felt at piece with her. He was happy. Yet, he needed her most now and he couldn't bring himself to pick up the phone.

He would give his life for her to hold him, to listen and pat his back as he cried. Sober. Not drunk. Really from the heart, the sober heart. He wanted it face to face, with not just emotionless nodding and expressionless frowns; he wanted a sign that she cared. That he meant something to someone that really mattered. But fear of losing her held him back. If he lost her, he was no one. He would die inside. Of all his friends; she was the one he considered to hold part of him.

His chest ached when he thought of her leaving and never having contact with him again. He wanted to die then and there. Take delight in the bottom of a vodka bottle and packet of pills. He would do it; if he lost her.

Yet, he knew, he was a sentimental dreamer. A fool.

But no, it had been a month with only small slip ups along the way. Something big was boiling inside, waiting to rip him to pieces; in every sense of the word. This needed to stop - it was no longer child's play, it was his secret coping method. He would rather be a fool than talk it out.

Yes, there are some he can talk to and it means a lot. But there is something missing.

Christ Christ Christ - It's all he can think as his hands begin to shake violently for the fourth time that day. He fidgeted, banged his fists and chewed on straws; anything to stop him self from being a fool.

He considers calling, even goes as far as to lift his phone, but he places it neatly back where it had sat. Fear, again, stopping him.

And his heart races. He can't seem to get enough air into his lungs, his limbs ache and his hands tremble obsessively.

Morning is fast approaching and he would rather be dead. Rather sleep until the pain ends. Anything. 

An email maybe? A short text? Perhaps. But it means nothing. The words aren't the same when you can't feel the pain behind them.

Could she feel the pain behind them? He could never tell.

And he considered her his best friend, the highest honer of friendship. He knew he was not a great person, nor a great friend, but if she were to ask him to go to the moon; he would find a way.  She put up with his shit, when a lot of others would not.

They had shared good times and bad times. Yet, why was there this fear of speaking from his heart? Of speaking the truth? Why the over whelming fear of losing her? How did he even know she would leave?

Would she?