There's the incessant ticking of the clock by the shelf above her, each tick counting down every second she spent sitting down on the hardwood floor. 

Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. 

To be exact, it was approximately four minutes and thirty two seconds since she promised the man on the seat to stay with him for five minutes. She only came up to at least remind him of the toiletries, but she only found herself being caught in an awkward situation of making her look like she was undressing her own boss, her stomach churning at the fright she had when she saw him looking intently at her. 

If only I didn't care so much, she thought to herself. Maybe I wouldn't be here.

Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. 

Although, she was still reeling from the pain of the unbearable weight of her confession. It's been days, but she was still trying her best to reset herself from falling back into this rut of being hopelessly in love with him, knowing very well he won't return back the affection she had for him. It was torture. It was mad torture that she wanted to think that there was meaning to his actions. It was torture that she wanted to think that he cared for her the way she cared for him. It was torture that despite her constant efforts, there was still that ten percent of her that clinged onto him for some reason.

Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

Maybe it was time that she could decide for herself to finally let go of him and live quietly without caring too much for him. Maybe it was time that she walked away from him and set the boundary straight the way she wanted to. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe this would be the last time she would do something for him like this.

Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six.

She counted down the ticks, the seconds she had to stay on the hardwood floor, just enough time to make sure he was actually asleep before she made her escape, figuring that this would be the last time she would stay for him.

Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty.

Her gaze redirected from the floor to his face, noticing how the creases from his forehead dissipated, his eyelids shut, the steady sound of slow breathing coming from his nose. His fingers twitch, and she fights the urge to hold it. She wondered if he ran out of insomnia tea, but the last time she checked the pantry, the stock was full of it. And then she wondered if he really had insomnia, since he fell asleep so quickly the moment she sat down. Her eyes memorized each detail about his face: the unruly hairs of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his long lashes, and even the shape of his lips, the small twinge in her heart coming up again, recalling the way those syllables came out of his mouth.

"Don't like me."

This snaps her out of her trance, and before she knew it, she lost count. She takes a look at the hands of the clock, seeing that a full minute has passed from the time she's supposed to leave. She gets up on shaking knees, careful enough not to wake him. She takes one last look at his sleeping figure before tiptoeing from his seat. Suddenly, she stops in her tracks.

A sharp inhale resonates through the room.

She almost broke her neck from how fast she looked back at him, only to find out that he's slouched on the couch, his head twitching slightly. She wasn't even out of the room and he was already having nightmares. She slides her foot backwards, but she stops herself.

I only promised five minutes. This is all I could do for him. I can't fall for him again.

She bites her tongue, restraining herself from the very thing she thinks of doing at the moment. She wondered how long she stood there, thinking of whether or not she could make a run for it, or otherwise.

No, I have to. I have to leave him. I don't want to care for him like this anymore.

But a couple of shaky breaths stop her again from moving forward, and she finds him slightly restless, a thin layer of sweat forming on his forehead. She crouches down right next to him, fighting the urge to wipe the sweat off his head and the creases that formed on his forehead again. She figured then, at that moment, maybe he needed a few minutes more with her, just until he calmed down in his sleep. She sits down next to his knees, back on the hardwood floor, as she leaned back on the arm of the sofa. She was careful not to touch him, and she had no intentions of doing so, not after what happened minutes ago. She started counting again, matching the ticking of the clock.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

With each tick passed, his breath slowed down again. It was almost impressive at how fast he calmed down all of a sudden. Maybe his nightmare was over, and maybe it was time for her to leave. But what if he gets a nightmare again? She figured that maybe it wasn't her business anymore if that's the case. But it hurt her too knowing that he couldn't sleep well. Is this why he had insomnia? Does he have nightmares all of the time? 

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. 

She tried closing her eyes for a second, her body feeling the weight of the tiring day she had. Just a few seconds of sleep, and then she'll leave.

Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

Her head found solace on his knee as she counted more, as she was pretty much decided that she'll leave after some time until the time passed. But her breathing slowed down before she could even finish counting the first minute. She wasn't aware that in the middle of the night, he was jolted awake, but he momentarily draped his blazer on her legs, and was careful not to wake her.

I'm sorry. He thought to himself, as he stared at her sleeping figure before he closed his eyes. I'm sorry that I still care for you like this.