Sunday

It had been a little over a month since Sunday had joined the Astral Express crew. He had been welcomed with open arms, and despite his reserve, it was clear he was making an effort to earn the trust of the others. Your rooms on the express were next to each other, which inevitably led to frequent encounters. Although Sunday was a quiet neighbor, his presence was felt - soft, but confident. Over time, you began to notice a feature that set him apart from the rest: the language of his wings. The more you got to know him, the more you realized how those wings reflected his true emotions, even when his face remained impassive.

Happiness. When Sunday was happy, it showed in the barely noticeable trembling of his wings. He could remain so collected and serious on the outside, but a slight, almost imperceptible fluttering betrayed his true feelings. This fluttering was his quiet, elusive smile, hidden in the shimmering light.

Excitement. You won't forget the moment you told Sunday that you saw him as a friend. He gave you a small smile, short and reserved, as always. But the real reaction was elsewhere - his wings suddenly twitched, as if responding to your words more sincerely than he dared. The gesture was like a sigh of relief.

Fear. As collected as Sunday was, his ability to maintain a cool, rational demeanor couldn't always hide his deeper emotions. You saw the fear on his face the day his plan went horribly wrong. He didn't scream or panic, but you saw his wings slowly, almost imperceptibly, press themselves against his face, as if he wanted to hide behind them, to shield himself from the inevitable disaster.

Anger. But of all the emotions you had seen, Sunday's anger was perhaps the most unexpected and frightening. One day, you witnessed his patience run out and his wings spread out: sharp and large, they stood in all their beauty. It was something dark and dangerous - like the silence before the storm.

Sadness. But what touched you most was the first time you saw him sad. It was the day he remembered his past, what he had lost. His wings drooped, as if weighed down by an invisible weight. Those wings, usually so mobile and alive, now seemed lifeless, motionless, like wilted flowers. That movement—or rather, the lack of it—screamed something he would never say out loud.

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Soft light of the lamps barely illuminated the narrow corridor, through which you, trying not to make noise, made your way to your room. Approaching the door, you felt for the handle and carefully pulled it. Once, then again.. but the door did not give in. Suddenly it occurred to you: you had accidentally locked it from the inside, and the keys were left only with Pom Pom, who had long since fallen asleep. The situation was clearly not conducive to calm.

A rustling in the corridor attracted the attention of Sunday, who came out of his room and looked at you intently. You did not know what to expect, but his expression soon softened and he smiled slightly, stepping aside. "If you want, you can wait at my place," he offered quietly, as if the decision was obvious. He did not have to think long: you were in a difficult situation, and he wanted to show that he could be trusted. "Don't worry, I can sleep on the chair," Sunday added, as if to reassure you that you shouldn't feel awkward.

Now you were in his room, alone for the first time in a long time. His wings fluttered lightly, although he tried to press them to himself: it was some kind of new gesture and it was difficult to understand what emotion he was experiencing now. "Do you want anything? Maybe a drink?" He asks, not knowing what else to fill the silence between you.

© 2024 @mikaria