I hopelessly, helplessly, wonder why
Ianto sighs, and rubs his hands over his eyes. He's been sitting on the couch for what feels like hours, trying to get the computer to work to his satisfaction. He thinks he's finally got it; it's nothing close to what he had at Torchwood, but it will work well enough for what he needs here in Margate. He stretches, and looks around the flat. Still empty. It's gotten late, later than he thought, after midnight by now. He's still not tired, but that's not surprising. His sleep patterns have been shot to hell the past week. No, more than a week, now. Nine days? Ten? He's lost count. Not bothered to keep track. No need. The numbers will just keep getting higher and higher, one day after another after another, until he manages to leave.

He stands up, wincing a bit at the stiffness in his legs; he's been sitting for too long. He walks back towards his room (our room) and stares at the bed, contemplating trying to sleep anyway. The window is still open.