Masacrik was many things, but the epitome of mental health? He was not. He wasn’t entirely sure of the last time he got some sleep, sometimes it came easy to him, and sometimes days would pass before he’d even think of closing his eyes.

He’d changed his clothes several times throughout the span of the night, wondering if that was what was bothering him to the point of insomnia. The tag of his first pyjama top had been scratching at the back of his neck uncomfortably. The second smelled a bit like damp laundry, like it had been left wet for too long. The third? Maybe it was the wrong colour? Either way, it had been thrown across his room with enough force it could have left a comically T-shirt shaped hole in his wall and replaced with a fourth.

He’d twisted the thermostat so much it was a wonder it hadn’t fallen off the wall. Twenty two degrees celsius. No, twenty two point five. Too hot, he turned it off entirely. Too cold. Eighteen celsius. Off again. He could have screamed, trekking up and down from his bed was starting to drive him round the bend. It wasn’t often he got so wound up over his sleep routine, but he was, for once, worn out. Thinking to himself, he must have been up a few days at this point. No wonder he was tired.

In the crux of his frustration, he ended up just shoving a pillow over his head, because he could hear the whirr of silence in his ears too loudly. It was bothering him.