He isn't sure what there is to say.
He isn't really sure what there is he can do, either, but he's got a seven-hour shift tomorrow, so there's some amount of other doings that need to be done. He'll need to go through his closet and find his clothes iron so he can flatten out his blue tie, and then he'll need to rifle around his fridge for awhile to decide what he'll be needing during his short lunch break. A sandwich, an apple or two, some leftovers he'd much rather just toss in the trash. It wasn't—and didn't—make too much of a difference to him. Just nice things to put in his saddlebags to forget and suffer for neglecting hours afterward, when his head would throb with heavy beats and his hooves would create twin trails in the dirt behind him.
It almost comes to him like a normal day, in fact. Just another day of blinking away the crust in his eyes, starting in his thousand-degree bed with a stunning jolt and an almost disheartened gasp, and staring at, first, the ceiling above him, then the fan trying its hardest just like he to get its expected work done with practically laughable results. He pulls off his sheets and sits up, an awkward position for a pony that goes uncared for as he brings up his shaking hooves, groans, and reaches for his dreary eyes to all but stuff them back into his scalding skull. His chest feels empty even though he knows he's bearing a heart, and lungs, and intestines and stomach, and he practically sprains his neck as he takes his bare attention elsewhere to his left.
It's only when his ears flicker and slap against his moist head that he realizes his alarm is still wailing at him with the volume of a winter night inside.
He reaches a leg out and swipes at his clock, which turns out to be much further from his bedside than he was usually accustomed to. He bears his teeth, furrows his brow, and pushes away the realization that he actually has to get up to turn it off as he rises out of his bed and does it. He stands there, his task now begrudgingly complete, and shivers at this newfound coldness. It courses through his entire chest—up and then down and then up again—when he sighs and tries to shake the feeling away.
It comes back to him again when he reaches his bedroom door, lightly pushes—no, walks—into it, and heads toward his kitchen. He needs to brush his teeth; he's not an animal, as far as the term goes, but ponies were animals, and animals needed to eat. The pit in his gut seems to agree with him, gurgling and pelting him with a familiar twinge. It wasn't that he wasn't taking care of himself; time was better spent in the mornings combing his hair and packing lunch and forgetting about the rest of the day ahead of his baggy blue gaze.
It almost comes to him like a normal day, in fact. So in fact that he almost jumps at the figure getting up on the couch, her—his—fuzzy gray blanket clinging to her with an energetic love for her unkempt fur. It seems that she very simply skips most of his daily routine; she only looks around for a perpetual second, then shifts her glance a bare centimeter and locks eyes with him without speaking a single word nor an audible sound.
And that's okay. He smiles, because it's five or so in the morning and he can make her something to eat.
He makes her breakfast for her, but he also makes the mistake of assuming she'd eat it, and so he spends an entire hour just staring at the patterned tiles of his kitchen floor waiting for a fork scrape or a resounding crunch. Even if she's a quiet eater, a gulp would work more than enough magic to get him moving again. She's looking at him; her food; her plate; whatever he seemed to be so interested about on the ground in front of him. If she was glancing about the dining room with an anxious panic, he wouldn't be able to tell. Her head is locked into place, hooves and body too. It seems only her eyes are capable of moving; she's paralyzed, just as he, but only she can have some sort of effect by fidgeting.
She's still here.
She hasn't left yet, but she hasn't shown any aching signs of wanting to stay, but she's still sitting at his dining table with a fork and a spoon and she's still just watching him out of the corner of his eyes and in the center of hers and she's still here.
There's no better option. Not for her. It's that easy. There's no reason on the entire planet that his company would be one so definingly sought after. There are other ponies in town. Countless for him, but none more for her, and so she prods at the toast in front of her with a silent judgment. There's nothing else to do. He's tried again to get her to eat, but tried is a tried word.
He steadies his breathing and tries to smush it back down like some kind of bellows when he realizes it's gotten too heavy. She notices, and looks away from her cold food and straight at him for an unspoken answer to her like question. She blinks in his peripherals but stays her studies. She isn't eating, so she's doing something else with her time to pass it.
There's a lack of energy in both of them, and he's already downed three shots of blistering coffee since trudging into his kitchen.
There are words on his tongue, beckoning ones that could start up something soft and new with someone he knew needed it, but they slide back his mouth and bury themselves in his gut. Counts of three and worthless self-promises come to him just like a conversation, disappearing and fading away without a trace as he stupidly sucks in air, lets it go, and works his trembling jaw around. There are words that can be said, but they're distant; hundreds, thousands, millions of miles away in much better hooves and much better company than he is. He'd love nothing more than to say them. Any of them. He'd pluck them off a tree and simply let it spill out and piddle like oil in a lake, but the neverending bark of rain beats against his front lawn, and he's hopelessly out of fresh eggs.
His tongue is caught, and hers just as well, and the only thing either had to change the situation now lies dormant amidst a sea of crappy jam and butter on a circlet of recently washed porcelain.
It's a quiet morning, but at least it's not lonely.