Archive of Our Own

I hate this house.

No, that’s a lie. I love this house. I grew up in this house. I don’t live in this house anymore, but I love it. Even if my blood stains the bathroom floor and the kitchen counter. I love this house, but right now, it’s suffocating me.

It’s June 7th, 2026. Sunday. Priscilla keeps telling me not to count the days, which is stupid, because I was told by the doctor to keep track of the days in order to keep my head above water. I think she thinks that if I realize that the day has gotten to the number 11, I might try and kill myself again. I guess I can’t really blame her for that, but it’s annoying all the same.

It’s June 7th, and I didn’t think I’d be sitting here on June 7th, 2026, nor did I think I would be opening my eyes yesterday or the day before yesterday or the day before that. I didn’t think I would make it to June of 2026 at all. Yet, I’m here. So.

I’m suffocating in this house, but I also don’t want to be out of it. I either sit on the couch, being monitored by the rest of my family like I’m a toddler, or I’m being brought outside to go on some stupid family outing that none of us want to be on. I don’t question why we always drive somewhere at least 30 minutes away, and why I’m never asked to tag along on outings in our home town. I just put on the sunglasses and the hood and I go. I know that none of them want to be seen with me. At least, not by people we know. Not like this. I guess that’s what I get.

The game is on, and I think I’m losing my mind. We’re not watching it like we used to. Keith just uses it now as some sort of fill for the silence. There’s no attachment to the players or the score anymore. We don’t cheer or discuss. In fact, I don’t even think he’s watching it at all. Every time we sit to watch baseball, which is something Keith does because he thinks it’s him doing his part to ‘heal’ me, Keith sits and zones out the entire time. And then I wonder if he’s thinking of my blood, and then I remember that’s a stupid question because I know I traumatized him. He was the one who saw it. He was the one who cleaned it up. It’s hard not to feel bad about that, especially because Keith was so normal before I met him, before I took the first swing of my fist to his face.

Priscilla is sitting quietly on the other couch, which she does sometimes. She’s 8 months pregnant. Every time she’s around me, she wraps herself in a blanket. She says it’s because she’s cold, but I see the way she shifts uncomfortably, see the sweat pool above her lip. It’s June and she’s pregnant and yet she’s hiding herself from me, like she’s scared. What does she think I’m going to do? See her pregnant belly and immediately drive the nearest sharp object into my skin? Or worse, does she think I’m going to try and rip her baby from her womb?

.. Sorry. I saw a clip about that once. Apparently people do that. I wouldn’t, obviously. But sometimes they all look at me like they think I’m going to. I think they’re all scared of me. I don’t want them to be, but they are. It makes me wonder if I’ve always been someone to fear, or if this is new as of my attempt. Am I violent to them? I must be, because they’ve been keeping me in this house like it’s my cage, keeping me silent and docile like I’ve been put in a muzzle. BEWARE OF DOG, says the sign in our window: you can’t come in; we’re housing a mental patient here, after all.

Behind me, I can hear Terry talking to Holly and dad. She’s talking softly, which is not abnormal for her, but feels ginger and hesitant. They talk around me like I’m some sort of ticking time-bomb. It makes me want to tear my hair out. I want to scream and say, it’s done! I’m done! I’m not going to try and kill myself! But I know talking will get me nowhere except probably back in the institution. Holly talks back normally, because I don’t think it’s possible for her to be quiet, and dad doesn’t say much of anything at all. I can hear the sound of Jesus carding through a book, too, and it just makes me sad. I’m not really allowed near him anymore. It’s an unspoken rule, but a clear one. I guess that’s for the best, too. 

We do this every goddamn day. How much longer can we all sit like this? How much longer are they going to keep me as their prisoner? I know that’s not how they see it, though. I overheard Priscilla crying to dad about a week ago. She was sobbing so viscerally that I was worried she was going to throw up.

We’re his prisoners, she said. I can’t keep living like this. I can’t do this anymore. 

It’s hard not to feel bad, even if I’m going insane in my own mind. It’s hard not to feel terrible and evil knowing I’ve not only done this to myself of my own accord but also done it to my family. Our lives will never be the same and it’s all my fault. The guilt eats at me, just like everything else does, and it doesn’t stop. I just sit here, in this stupid house, on this stupid couch, feeling ill all the time. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that, and apparently neither does anyone else. The only one who seems to have an idea about it is my daughter, but I’ve stopped listening, because I basically don’t sleep anymore. I sleep, and I start to dream, and I slap myself in my dream until I wake up. Sometimes it doesn’t work, and I sit on the forest floor and beg myself to wake up until it works, sitting under the presence of her mismatched eyes and familiar teeth and sharp laugh.

“She’s just a figment of your imagination,” Keith said to me once. “She’s not telling you to do anything. She’s not real. It’s just your own mind.”

“I know that,” was all I could manage to say, because if I punched him, I’m sure I would have gotten sent somewhere, or maybe they would have just let me get arrested after all this time. 

I don’t think they’ll ever get it. I don’t want to explain, either. It was hard enough to try and explain to doctors. It was hard enough to have to tell them the first time, so long ago, hey, I’m fucking crazy. I’m hearing something that’s not real. I’m imagining someone that doesn’t exist and it affects my life. They’ll never know what it’s like, and I’m glad they don’t, so I just watch the game in front of me and pretend I don’t hear her whispering behind me. She doesn’t say much– it’s just a brief ‘hi, daddy’, and she’s gone. She’s always gone just as quick as she arrives because I’m not crazy enough for her to stay longer. Sometimes I catch myself wishing I could hallucinate her for real, so that I could have her for real, and then I realize how fucking batshit that is and I reel myself back.

“Carlos,” Keith says from the opposite end of the couch. We’ve never really been the type to sit close to each other. He doesn’t like me. He’s supposed to be my brother, but he doesn’t like me. We love each other, but I don’t like him, either. Sometimes I dream about my hands around his throat, and he’s coughing up blood, and I’m telling myself to stop out loud, and it comes out in the sound of his voice. But my hands are locked around his throat, stuck like they’ve been glued. I pull and tug at them, trying to rip them free, further throttling him in my efforts. I do this until I wake up. I don’t like to dream. 

“What?” I say, and I barely turn to look at him, because he barely turns to look at me. The only ones who can face me head on are Terry and Holly. Terry, I think, is the only one who truly sees me. Holly is just brave enough to face what she fears.

“Do you remember that one time we did this? In high school?” Keith asks me, and there’s a forced smile in his voice. I don’t know what he’s referring to, and my confusion must show on my face, because he nods his head towards the TV screen. On the screen are two of the players fighting, and I frown immediately. They don’t fight for long before they’re ripped off of each other. I imagine there will be dire consequences to that fight. We never got any consequences to ours.

“That ‘one time’?” I say, and I know he wants me to laugh, I know they all want me to laugh, but I don’t. “We did that several times.”

“One time you knocked one of my teeth out,” Keith says.

“What time was that?” I ask sardonically. 

Keith pauses, and I watch his tongue swirl around his mouth, pushing against his cheek, landing on the spot where he must be missing a tooth. There’s a permanent hole in his row of perfect, golden-boy teeth, and it’s almost amusing– but it’s hard not to feel bad when I think about it, and I know that he would have been so normal if it wasn’t for me. His face darkens, and he says quietly, “I don’t remember,” and I can’t tell if he’s lying or telling the truth.

“Can we watch something else?” Priscilla asks, because she’s selfish. I’m more selfish than she is, though, and so I guess I don’t really have any room to talk. We’re all sitting here because I’m selfish. Because I wanted something so bad I was willing to kill myself for it. She adjusts her pink blanket over herself and her tongue darts out of her mouth to lick the sweat off of her upper lip. I wonder if Keith still has time to be attracted to her. I wonder if they still love each other, or if I’ve completely ruined their lives.

“Like what?” Keith asks, and there’s a lilt to his voice, and I know he’s probably trying to tell her no without saying it, like he thinks he’s watching the game for me. I don’t care what we watch, but he doesn’t want to hear that.

“Anything,” Priscilla shrugs. “Just not this. Something with a story.”

“I think we should watch the game,” Keith says tightly. Lately, all they do is fight, which is weird, because Keith used to do everything Priscilla said without question. It makes me sad. I pray every night that they stop fighting before their son comes, because I don’t want their lives to repeat the history of our family. I tack it onto the end of my prayers like a P.S.

“Fine,” Priscilla says, and she looks like she’s on the verge of tears. I want to get up and hug her and lay my head on her shoulder, but I think she would scream if I did that. She barely wants to touch me anymore, like I’m some sort of freak. I guess I am.

“What do you want to watch, Carlos?” Terry says, coming up from behind me. She puts her hand timidly on my shoulder, and I lean into it to let her know it’s okay. She’s a breath of fresh air whenever she speaks to me. She’s 24 now, and I can’t believe she’s gotten so old. She’s got some new boyfriend, but I think I ruined that, too. 

“Nothing,” I say honestly, only being honest because she’s come over. I stretch my hands out to her, wiggling my fingers childishly, begging for her to hug me. I pout my lip, so it looks like I’m kidding, but I’m starved of touch and really genuinely pleading. She smiles softly and comes to burrow into my side, and I wrap my arms around her and sigh. I nuzzle my head into her shoulder and hope she knows how grateful I am for her, how grateful I am that there’s still someone left who loves me.

“You don’t want to watch the game?” Keith asks.

“Not really,” I say, and Priscilla scoffs under her breath.

“What– what do you want to do, then?” Keith questions, asking as if I’ve just stumped him with some sort of brainteaser he can’t comprehend.

“I don’t know,” I respond. “Why are you acting like you’re responsible for me? You can just walk away.”

Keith frowns tightly and turns away, crossing his arms and tapping his foot. His frustration means nothing to me and never has. 

“So I can watch something else?” Priscilla asks.

“Do whatever you want,” Keith says, and he tosses the remote over to the other couch. It lands too close to Priscilla’s foot, and she stares at it, eyebrows furrowed. I want to slap him– I want to say, how dare you treat my sister like that, and knock another tooth out. I don’t do that, though. I don’t say anything.

“Fuck you,” Priscilla says, and she kicks the remote off the couch with her foot. It lands on the floor and the back comes off. It never stays on, because someone’s always tossing it around the living room in a fit of anger. Usually me. She slowly stands off the couch, and Keith automatically moves to help her, but she stops him with a sharp lift of her palm. “Asshole.”

As she walks off, probably to go up to her old childhood bedroom, Keith drops his head to his hands and starts to gently scrub at his face. He does that a lot. It would be laughable if we were all different people. Teresa sighs and stands from the couch to pick up the remote, sliding the back of it back on. Keith watches her, and I’m sure he’s feeling regretful or imagining fixing the remote himself. He likes to fix things, but not everything can be fixed.

“Watch the way you talk to my daughter,” my dad says, and Keith just nods. He used to be scared of that phrase, of that tone. I can’t tell if he’s lost the fear of my father after all this time, or if he’s too tired to be scared of anything other than my blood.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” I say to Keith, leaning back lazily into the couch. I shut my eyes so I don’t have to look at him. “You should probably go apologize to your wife.”

“Right,” Keith just nods again, and he sits still for a moment longer before sighing and standing. “Right,” he repeats, before he walks off to go follow Cilla. He shakes his head as he passes, just slightly in a way he probably thinks no one can see. Maybe no one else does, and I just always notice everything, even when people think I don’t. I notice the way he hesitates to walk up the stairs, and the way he’s started to walk around the house in casual clothes. I notice the way he’s complained to my dad that he can’t keep taking time off work. I notice the way he watches me out of the corner of his eye. I notice the way his fingers shake when he’s next to me. I’ve noticed the scruff he’s got coming in, something so unlike his clean-cut, preppy ass. I notice the dead, exhausted look behind his blue eyes.

Terry comes back to sit next to me. Her body is tense and it makes me tense, too. I feel like I can read her mind— I wish they wouldn’t fight so much, I hope they’ll be okay; I wish we could all be okay; I wish everything would be okay for once. But she’s smart like me, and the only person in the house besides Keith with any sort of impulse control, and so she sits and chews on her lip instead. Quietly, she makes a sort of chirping noise, something she’s done since probably before I met her. It’s like a cross between a hum and a click of your tongue. I want to hold her to my chest and tell her how sorry I am. I want to tell her that she’s something to live for, but I know she wouldn’t believe me.

I tap her thigh three times with my finger. She looks up at me, brown eyes shining with sadness, and sucks her cheeks in before tapping the top of my hand three times in response. I love you. 

“I think you should do something,” Terry says, and she picks up the remote again to turn off the TV. “And I don’t mean watch baseball.”

“I am doing something,” I say. “I’m sitting here.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” my dad says in Spanish. I just huff.

“What if you invited Neil over?” Holly says. “You haven’t seen him in a while.”

“You say it like I’m 12,” I say too quickly, and it jolts itself out of my mouth in a way that reveals I was very obviously startled and scared by her suggestion of seeing Neil. “‘Aww, Carlos is bored. Better invite his crush over’. Like—“ I choke on my own spit and swallow it. I can feel my lip tremble. “Like, what?”

“You don’t have to,” Terry says. “We just thought it might be nice.”

“He’s missed you,” Holly says, and I want to ask her how she knows that, but I can’t pry my mouth open. Instead, I twist my lips into knots and suck on my cheeks. I bounce my leg up and down and look over at the wall. “And not only do you like him, he’s your best friend.”

I know it’s a good suggestion. I haven’t seen anyone I know besides my family in a pretty long time. I haven’t contacted anyone. I can’t bring myself to do it– I see people text me and I swipe and get rid of the extra number on my notifications. I don’t even read them anymore— I can’t look at another ‘are you okay’ from my friends or a ‘where are you’ from Charlie or a nagging text from my manager. And I especially can’t take Beckett asking me if I’m even alive. 

I know it’s a good suggestion, but I’ve found sick comfort in avoidance, and I’m honestly just scared. I’m scared to see Neil after avoiding him for so long, but especially in the state I’m in. I’m not stupid— I look physically sickly along with being fucked up in the head. Neil’s one of the only people I can never truly run from. How was I supposed to face him like this? How was I supposed to look at him knowing I was ready to die without saying goodbye to him? How was I supposed to look him in the eye and keep lying about everything I’ve been lying about for years? How was I supposed to pretend to be okay?

I like to ask rhetorical questions. Sometimes they’re only rhetorical because I can’t face the answer.

It was just scary to think of seeing Neil again. In a way, it would be easier to see almost anyone else than to see Neil. The stakes were much lower; nobody else saw me the way he did, and I didn’t care about what anyone else thought of me even half as much as I cared what he thought. I mean, what if he was mad? What if he would be mad that I had ignored him for over a month? That was an asshole move on my part— it’s not like he knew I’d been in the hospital. What if he was mad, and I invited him over, and he ended up telling me we couldn’t be friends anymore? That my horrible behavior over the last year had gotten to its high point, and he was done trying to deal with me? Or, maybe just as bad, what if he takes one look at me and sees right through? What would I even do if he knew about everything?

My anxiety must be visible, because Terry pats my leg and says again, “You don’t have to. It was just a thought, don’t worry. We just thought it might be good.”

“I’m just…” I say, quietly and just to her, even though I’m sure my parents can hear. I bite my lip for a second, momentarily ashamed— ironic, right? How can I stand to be anymore ashamed?— before I sigh and whisper, “I’m scared.”

“I would be, too.” Teresa smiles. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “But don’t you want to see him?”

God, did I want to see him. I ached for him with everything I had. I ached and I burned and I waited and I yearned. Every word for limerence you can track down in the thesaurus, I felt it. Of course I wanted to see him— I could physically feel his arms on my body and imagine the squint of his eyes and smell the scent of his shampoo. In my isolation, I found myself tracing the shape of his collarbone onto every surface, holding onto everything I owned that he had ever touched, pressing my lips to his signature in my old grade school yearbooks, just in hopes of having something with me. 

Of course I wanted to see him; I loved him more than I think anyone has ever loved a person. He had every piece of me, and not in a way that was cruel like the cold hands of my daughter, not in a way that was encased in grief like the woman I’ll love forever. I loved him in a way that was the beginning and the end of everything, and no matter what happened in the middle of my life, I started out loving him and I was going to end my life doing the same. His name was etched into my bones, and the shavings from those carvings were the moles that dotted my skin; his face was in my genetic makeup, and my soul was spun with the color green, because that had always been his favorite color. I loved him, and it was in fact the second most painful thing in my life, and I ached for him to be in front of me. I wanted nearly nothing more than to see him. I missed him in such a sickening way, in a way that had me standing outside at night and wondering if he was doing the same, that had me putting my own hands in my hair and wishing they were his. The longing was so deep that it had become almost disturbing, and I’d sit in my room in the dark and curl myself into a ball and pretend I was sitting inside his body, surrounded by his ribcage, and that his beating heart was in the palm of my hand.

“Yes,” I say, because that’s the only way I can say any of that simply, any of that normally. “I do. I really do.”

“Then why would you let your fear get in the way?” Teresa says, her thumb rubbing itself into my shoulder. It passes over the ridge of the bone, and I have to force myself not to jump back at the odd feeling. I’m still not used to it.

“What if he hates me?” I whisper, and I must sound so pathetic, I know I do. 

“It’s Neil.” Terry laughs gently, in a way that’s not mocking or cruel, but instead understanding and warm. “Nothing could make him hate you. Not even you ghosting him.”

I swallow, dropping my eyes back to my lap where my hands are wringing themselves out. My tongue is tense, pressing at the roof of my mouth. 

“Just call him,” my dad says, and he says it with such frustration that I almost want to recoil. “Call him yourself or let one of us do it. We don’t need to do this song and dance.”

“Fine,” I say, and it’s watery, and I stand abruptly just to hide my face from him and his eyes that make me feel so damn ashamed all the fucking time. “Fine, okay. I’ll call him.”

“That’ta boy, sport!” Holly smiles, and as I pass her to grab my phone off the counter and walk outside, she lands a hearty clap on my back. I do my best not to shrug her off.

“You can also just text him,” Terry calls as I open the patio door. “If calling is too intimidating.”

“Right,” I say, and I step outside into the hot June air and close the door behind me. I stand there for a second, before moving out of the way of the door, blocking myself from their view. I take a deep breath, relishing in the brief moment of privacy, something I don’t seem to get much of lately. With shaking hands and the sound of birds chirping in my ears, I dial a number from memory, not bothering to waste time to check the contact. It rings several times before going to voicemail.

“Hi, Serena,” I say, and my voice shakes even though she’s not on the other side. I pause pregnantly, chewing my lip, before continuing. “It’s, uh– hi. I’m just calling to say hi. It’s really nice out today. I had a crepe for breakfast and I thought of you. Because you like crepes. Obviously.” I pause again, resisting the urge to facepalm. It wasn’t like my awkwardness mattered– she was never going to hear these messages. “The sun is shining. Junior’s been sleeping upstairs all day. I think he misses New York. I, um– I miss you.” My voice shakes, becomes watery, becomes weak, just as it always does. “Like… a lot. I really fucking do. And I think– uhm– often it feels like, uhm, I’m never going to see you again. And I… I just… Uhm. So, if you get this, just give me a call. You don’t– you don’t have to, though, I just mean, if you wanted to, but didn’t know if I wanted to, I, uh, I do. Okay. I love you, Sere. If you need me I’ll always be here. Forever. I’m sorry for– okay. Uhm, bye. Love you.”

I hang up the phone, and I stand there and stare at it and let the tears flow– they’re going to come anyway, and I met as well let them pass instead of trying to bottle them up. I learned that, are you proud of me? 

It’s really hard a lot of the time to think about Serena, even though it’s what I’ve been doing nonstop for years. It’s really hard because it’s hopeless. I’ve dealt with a lot of hopeless things in my life, but I don’t think anything has hit me as hard as the loss of Serena and the loss of my daughter. It’s hard because I’m in love with her, but I’m not just in love with her; I love her. And it’s hard because I’m never going to see her again. I keep trying to pretend there’s some hope that I will, like I still do with my mother, but I know that I won’t. And I know there’s not even a very small percentage of a chance I’ll ever see the daughter we were supposed to have.

I struggle with it so much that I’ve never been able to talk about it. I don’t really know what to say. The more it hurts, the harder it is to speak of. The doctors tried to get me to talk about it, and so has my family a million times, but I’m just really not sure what to say. I wanted my daughter to live. I wanted to have that life. I wanted to marry her. I wanted to hold Jolie in my hands and feel her breathe and watch her grow up. I wanted it so much, and I still do want it, that not getting it kills me– and not in the same way that something as stupid as not dating Neil does. It kills me in a real and genuine way, in a way free of all dramatics and juvenile behaviors. It has worn me down to the frail person I am today, and I can barely exist anymore from how badly the grief has swallowed me whole. That’s it.

Once I think the tears have cleared enough for me to talk to Neil without sounding like an idiot, I take a deep breath and find his contact to call. I can’t help but sit and stare at it, stare at the photo I have as his contact photo. It’s a candid, because I’ve always loved candids, especially of him. I think it’s from when we were 24, and he’s smiling in the sun. I stare at it and I stare and I stare, because I just can’t make myself call him. What was he going to say? What was he going to do? What if he didn’t even pick up? I’m sure it must have seemed foolish to anyone else for me to worry how Neil was going to react, and that was essentially why they would never understand me. They didn’t, first of all, know how rough our relationship had been for the past year– and they certainly didn’t understand what it was like to desperately pine for someone for so long, and how that affected the way I treated him. There was a very large chance he would be mad at me, and the phone call would turn into a confrontation, and I would get upset and hang up and ruin our friendship forever. But I guess that would be deserving, and ruining my relationship with him would be the final thing to ruin… and then perhaps I would finally be satisfied with my self-destruction.

That was super cringe. Sorry. 

All it takes is icking myself out to make myself impulsively press the call button. It rings once, making my heart lurch, and I’m about to chicken out and hang up the phone when he answers. 

“Carlos?” He says, not even giving me time to say ‘hello’ first. I wince and hold the phone away from my ear, turning it on speaker phone and holding the microphone towards my mouth. I gulp.

“Hi.” I say nervously, guiltily, unsure of what else I’m supposed to say. I twist my lips together until it hurts.

“I– hi.” Neil says, and I can tell I’ve really shocked him. There’s a brief moment of silence before he says forcefully (though not abrasively), “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” I say awkwardly, nodding even though he can’t see me. “All good.”

“Okay,” Neil says, and I hear the gentle sound of his breathing, crackling through the phone speaker. It almost reminds me of a fireplace, or even a windchime. I shut my eyes. “Uhm, you– it’s been a long time since we’ve talked.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, rubbing my cheek with my free palm. “It’s… been a long time since I’ve talked to anyone, actually.”

“Oh,” Neil says, just as awkward as I am, apparently. “Uh… Why?”

“No reason,” I say, like a liar. Neil pauses, and I can hear him sucking on his teeth, teetering on the edge of pestering me– but I hope he can hear the exhaustion in my voice and spare me, even if just for the phone call.

After a couple beats, he says, “It’s nice to hear your voice. I’ve been so worried. Like– just– you know.”

“Right,” I say, unsure of how to respond to that in words other than ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m so fucking sorry’. I feel my fingers start to shake again. They usually do lately, I guess because I’m so skinny now, and so mentally perturbed. At least it makes me feel like a real celebrity. “I like hearing your voice, too. So.”

“Yeah,” Neil laughs, and the sound brings actual tears to my eyes, because there’s always room for me to get more pathetic. I grip the phone so tightly it makes a small noise, and I press it to my forehead like I can somehow transport him to me, somehow draw out the sound of his laughter and inject it into my veins, into the curves of my brain. “Glad we’re… on the same page there.”

“Yeah,” I say, and my throat starts to do the burning, clenching thing, and my voice starts to get watery, and I tear the phone away from my face so he can’t hear the sound of me shuddering with tears. 

“Yeah,” he repeats, and then there’s silence, and I can’t fill it because I don’t know what I could possibly say. I bring my shirt up to cover my mouth, sniffling into it like a child. He breathes on the other side and it’s almost like I can feel it wash over me. “So– sorry, why did you call? Not that you need a reason or anything, but if you did have a reason, then– uh, you know. But if there’s no reason, that’s also good. You never need a reason to call me, but you know that, so I don’t… I don’t know why I’m… Sorry. I’ll stop.”

Don’t stop, I want to say. Don’t ever stop. Keep going forever. I want you to talk to me forever. I want you forever.

“Uhh, no, I did have a reason, yeah.” I say, and I rub the back of my neck with my hand, entangling my fingers in my hair. It’s too long, much too long. My perfectly-kept mullet was now something .. gross. “I– uh– fuck, sorry.” And then I laugh, and he laughs, and there’s something stilted about his laugh that I don’t quite understand.

“Yeah?” He says softly and gently, and the sound makes my skin prickle with goosebumps. “What is it?”

“Umm.. just, I was just wondering if you wanted to come over.” I force myself to say, and I know my voice shakes, I know it’s tense and lilted with nerves, but I’ve gotten it out, so I’ve accomplished something at the very least.

“To your apartment?” Neil questions warily.

“No, no, sorry– haha, sorry. Um, to my parents’ house. I’m staying there for the time being.” I clarify.

“Oh. Today? Right now?” Neil asks again.

“I mean, yeah. Uhm, it doesn’t have to be right now, it could be whenever, but I meant… today.” I say, biting on my thumbnail. “You don’t have to. I’m sure you’re busy. I just wanted to ask.”

“I’m not busy.” Neil says, and it sounds like he’s standing up or moving something. “Well– no, no, I’m not busy. I’ll come over.”

“Okay,” I say, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Okay, that’s cool.”

“Cool,” Neil sighs, too. I ache. “Cool.”

“Cool,” I repeat, and for the first time in a while, I’m smiling. I’m smiling, and I can’t stop myself. It’s the same stupid, lovesick grin he always gives me, the one that tingles your cheeks and can’t be wiped away.

“... Was that it?” Neil says, and he sounds as nervous as I am.

“What do you mean?” I respond, confused.

“Nothing, sorry,” Neil says, and I imagine him shaking his head from side-to-side. “I’ll be over soon. Would you like anything? Like, a pack of candy? Soda?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say dismissively. “But thank you.”

“Sure,” Neil says. “I’ll surprise you, then. See you soon, Carlos.”

“See you,” I say, and then I hang up. I stand there for a few beats, taking it all in, before realizing how soon he was going to be here and running in the house. When I slam the patio door shut behind me, my family all turns to look at me expectantly. Keith and Priscilla have come down, and someone must have clued them in, because their eyebrows are raised in question.

“Why would you all do this to me?” I whine, throwing my hands up. “He’s going to be here in, like, five seconds, and I look like this.” I gesture at myself– a complete and total mess. I hadn’t showered in a couple days to start, but I also was, like, a hairy freak. I wasn’t allowed to handle razors anymore, which, fair, I did that to myself– but it meant that my face was scruffy until my dad or Keith decided they were willing to shave it for me, and that the rest of my body was just growing hair. I hadn’t had body hair since I was in high school. I lift my armpit to smell myself and recoil in disgust. “Oh my God, you’re all evil, you did this to me on purpose!”

“It’s not our fault you don’t bathe, mijo.” My dad says, rolling his eyes, unwilling to ever take any of my shit. “You have time to shower.”

“No, I literally don’t.” I say, unable and uncaring to kick the childish whine out of my voice.

“Okay, so, you’re doing this to yourself, then.” Priscilla snorts.

“Shut up!” I say, stomping my foot, and instead of laughing at me, she just shrinks in on herself. Foolish of me to forget that nobody wants to joke around with me anymore.

“At least go change, then, sport.” Holly says. “You’ve been wearing those clothes for a few days.”

“Yes,” my dad says. “Change your shirt. That shirt makes you look gay.”

I know he’s referring to the way I’ve cut the collar to make it fall off my shoulder like the girls do. I roll my eyes and make my way towards the stairs. “I am gay, papi! Your son is gay!”

I ignore his muttering but enjoy the sound of Terry and Holly’s giggling as I shut the door to my room. Thus ensues my panic of trying to find something clean, of trying to tidy up my room, of trying to make myself look as presentable as I can before he arrives. I find a clean but wrinkled baggy t-shirt and a decently clean pair of sweatpants and call it a day, and try to scrub the stink off my skin quickly. My hair is just how it’s going to be, and I just have to hope that he won’t care that it’s dirty, because I’ll probably start crying if I get too insecure about it. I also have to try not to be bothered by the hair on my face and my arms and everywhere else. For my own sanity. I put on deodorant and spray myself with some random Bath and Body Works mist from college, one that hardly smells like vanilla anymore, or anything at all. Junior sits by me the whole time as I primp myself to the best of my ability, occasionally nudging me with his snout to let me know he’s got my back, and doesn’t care that I smell like fifty shades of shit. 

“This is fine, right?” I say to Junior, who doesn’t respond because he’s a dog. I mess with my hair a bit more in the mirror, trying to give my flat curls some life. I brush the scruff on my face with my fingers as if it’ll be erased when I do. I try not to focus on the fact that my skin looks dull and dead, and that the old Julia High t-shirt hardly conceals that I’m so skinny, and that I’ve never felt so ugly in my life. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever found myself ugly until this past month. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he was attracted to me anyway.”

I try to repeat that to myself— he doesn’t want me anyway, so I have no need to try to impress him. But I couldn’t help it. I always wanted him to think I was attractive, hot, sexy, lovable. I couldn’t help but curate myself to try and attract him no matter what I was doing— but now that there was nothing I could do but be utterly disgusting, I was feeling like I would perhaps rather die than see him. But I think I felt that way about anyone— even the people I considered my closest non-blood family, like Kaia and Chandrai, couldn’t see me like this. 

“It matters,” I sigh, and I’m searching around my messy bedroom for my phone to call Neil and cancel when I hear the doorbell ring. Junior barks a couple times and I shove my phone in my pocket, bolting out of my room and down the stairs, calling I got it down to my family before they do something stupid. 

I thunder down the stairs, and I’m about to unlock the front door when my dad says, “Carlos! Why does your ass say pink?”

“What?!” I yelp, and turn around to attempt and look at my ass, but I can’t see it. “Huh?!”

“Are those my pants?!” Priscilla shrieks, looking at me from where they were all crowded in the kitchen, surely waiting to watch me interact with Neil. “You’re gonna stretch them out!”

“They were in my room!” I shout back. “It’s not like you were wearing them anyway!”

“Take them off!” Priscilla whines. She was nearly 30 and still whining. But I guess I was sort of doing the same, and I was closer to 30 than 21. 

“Yes, take them off.” My dad says, waving his hand at me. “You look like…”

“A slut!” Priscilla finishes for him, and Teresa chirps in protest, swatting Priscilla’s arm. 

“Cilla, that’s rude!” She reprimands, her lower lip jutting out.

“She’s right,” my dad tuts, clicking his tongue. “You look like a whore all the time. All the time.”

“I am a whore, papi! Now everybody please shut up!” I whine, and I’m flushed because I’m entirely sure Neil can hear this entire conversation outside. I hold up my palm towards them to say stop before turning and taking a deep breath, and then unlocking the front door. 

Opening the door is like being basked in sunlight. I think that’s the best way to describe it. I’m not very poetic, but if I had to try, I would say it felt like being washed over by sunlight on a dewy spring morning, like standing on the edge of your driveway in the evening when all the streetlights are on, like laying in bed after a long day. I don’t think any of that’s very poetic. I don’t think I’m very poetic at all, but Neil is. He doesn’t even have to try, he just is. I think he’s the most beautiful thing about this world. He’s the smell of freshly cut grass and your hand in a running stream and the mist of a sprinkler in the summer. He was the embodiment of everything I loved. Everything I needed. I let out a deep sigh I had been holding for quite a while, and the inhale that followed was him. With that breath he filled my lungs again. It was like I could physically feel color coming back into my skin, the way you feel water rejuvenate you when you’re dehydrated.

“Hi,” he says, and I don’t think he says it very loudly but I can hear him all the same. He says it after a moment of pause, looking at me in a way I can’t describe but know is a side effect of our time apart. Hi, he says, and he’s beautiful. Hi, he says, and I love him, and I’m so suddenly overwhelmed with love that I think I might cry or faint or throw up. Hi, he says, and he’s got freckles on his nose and a bit of a tan and chapped lips. 

“Hi,” I breathe, and I hope that it’s not obvious how much I love him in my tone, and yet I also want him to know, need him to know, need to tell him that I think I was made to live a life entirely in his shape. Hi, I say, and I love him more than I can wrap my head around. Hi, I say, and I feel my heart pick up pace again, pounding with a newfound brightness, like it’s just been reborn. Hi, I say, with the intention of never uttering another goodbye, with the intention of forever.

His mouth opens, closes; his lips teeter on a smile and his fingers twitch. I don’t know what to say and neither does he, and I can’t tell how long we stand there— not quite frozen in time but instead pausing it as a whole— before he’s stepping over the threshold and grabbing me, pulling me into a tight hug. My body reacts before my brain can even think, and I’m wrapping my arms around him, sinking into his embrace. I melt into it, gripping onto the fabric of his shirt, dropping my head into his neck, readily letting myself mold into him, becoming one with the comforting heat of his body. He’s holding me, and everything’s okay again. Everything that had been wrong for so long was okay, even if just for this moment. He’s holding me and I’m home again.

I want you forever. I want you forever. I want you forever.

He’s holding me tightly, tightly in a way nobody else hugs me, in a way that’s so earnest and genuine. He doesn’t want to let go and he wants me to stay there and so do I. So do I, and so I hold him tighter, muster all the strength I have to hold onto him, to let his heart be the lifeline for mine, let it help me stir back to life. As he touches my hair, touches my skin, breathes against me, I think I’m almost revived. Almost.

When he pulls back, he holds onto the backs of my upper arms, hands wrapped around them entirely. He pulls back with a furrowed brow, and his eyes give me a once-over, and I know he’s felt it, and for a moment I really think he’s going to run out the open door behind him. But he looks up at me, meets my gaze, and he must hear my silent plea for him to show me some type of mercy, any kind of it, and so he drops his hands and seemingly drops the topic. The acid in my stomach subsides.

“It’s so good to see you,” Neil says, voice barely above a whisper. Was he whispering because he didn’t want my family to hear? I didn’t care at all if they did. I don’t care about anything else but him. He’s in front of me, and he’s all I see. He’s all I’ve ever seen. He’s all I’ll ever see. This is the way it’s always been. 

“You, too,” I say, matching his volume because it makes me feel like we’re doing something, like we’re apart of something together. It makes me feel like I can pretend, for a moment, that we’re in love. That we’re speaking this way because we’re having a shared moment. That he’s going to kiss me any second— smile, take my cheek in his hand, press his lips to mine. 

He just looks at me after, staring, a soft smile on his lips. I can’t help but smile, too. I haven’t smiled in so long. His hands come forward and take mine in his, and we stand there in that moment, time glittering around us like gold, like the rays of a sunset over water. I ground myself in his thumb tracing itself over the back of my hand, in the curl of his fingers against my palm. I wonder if he knows how much that means to me, if he’ll ever understand how much I love him. I wonder if he’ll ever understand that he is me— that I wasn’t a person until he decided that I got to be one. 

Once again, I’m overwhelmed to tears, and I drop my gaze to my bare feet, breathing a single breath of laughter. He makes a noise of the same sort, and when I blink the tears away and look back up at him, he’s still looking at me. Looking at me like he might love me. I can pretend, especially when his eyebrows tilt up and his eyes crinkle and his smile pinches his cheeks. When his eyes shine and wane and wax like the moon. One of his hands, large and calloused and peach, lifts and gently starts to trace the stubble along my cheeks and my chin. The pad of his index draws a path down from the bottom of my ear to my chin, up the other side, and then to come and tenderly touch the hair above my upper lip. 

I stand there, frozen, trying not to move too much and startle him, trying not to let my shame show. But he doesn’t seem repulsed by the hair on my face. Instead, he’s looking at me observationally, sweetly in a way I don’t quite know how to phrase; he’s looking at me like I’m a bird perched on his finger, allowing him to study it and pet the feathers on its head. Like I’m a wild animal, a being he treasures more than his own life. Like he’s aware of how lucky he is to be allowed to touch me in this moment, like he knows it’s fleeting, like he’s taking every bit of me that I give him until I decide to pull back. But I don’t want to pull back, I don’t want him to think I’m going to run away, so I lean into his touch. He responds by turning his gaze from my cheeks up to my eyes again, and spreads his palm out against my face, cupping my cheek in his hand. I relax into it, and I almost shut my eyes out of habit, out of exhaustion, but I want to look at him forever—

so I let them droop but keep them open. His eyes widen slightly and I don’t know why, and it almost makes me panic, but before I can freak out his gaze softens and his fingers tangle themselves sweetly into my hair and his thumb traces circles into my cheek, and I’m relaxing again, finally feeling at peace for the first time in who knows how long. His mouth moves, tracing fractions of words and syllables I can’t make sense of, and I can tell he’s trying to say something but can’t figure out how to do it, something he’s been doing since we were kids— and I sit and wait, because I’ll always sit and wait for him. I spend my life waiting. I stare at him, and I will for as long as it takes, as long as I’m able— I could watch him and only him for the rest of eternity and never complain again.

I don’t get to find out what he was going to say, though, because suddenly I hear my father exclaim ay, caramba, and Priscilla groans. Neil startles and jumps back from me, and we both turn to look into the kitchen. Keith is waving a piece of paper around while my father mutters under his breath and Holly chuckles. I had completely forgotten they were there.

“You let a fly in!” Keith sighs. “Close the door!”

“Sorry,” Neil says, clearly embarrassed, and I watch his cheeks flush a pretty pink. He turns and shuts the front door, locking it and then coming to awkwardly stand next to me, shoulders tense. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” Teresa says reassuringly. She stands from where she had been sitting at the kitchen counter, walking a few steps toward us but falling just short. “Carlos keeps letting them in because of Junior.”

“Junior’s here?” Neil questions, turning to look at me with an eyebrow raised. I don’t know why he seems to be so shocked by that.

“Yeah, I mean, I couldn’t leave him at home.” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Do you want me to call him down?”

“It’s okay,” Neil says, with an odd look on his face.

“We missed you, kid!” Holly says, and she comes over and pulls Neil into a big hug. Neil smiles, lopsided and bashful, and falls into her hug. She pats his back, causing Neil to laugh. “Long time no see.”

“It’s nice to see you guys,” Neil says, a smile in his voice, and he pulls back only to be met with Teresa finally coming over to give him a real hug. 

“Always nice to see you, Neil,” Terry says, and then she pulls back to allow Holly to start leading Neil into the kitchen, chatting with him. She turns to me and puts her hand on my arm, smiling at me, and she whispers, “See? This is good.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re always right,” I mumble back, but I’m smiling, too.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Teresa says, tilting her head to the side and shrugging. She looks at Neil, who was now shaking my father’s hand in the kitchen and getting kissed on the cheek by Priscilla, and then she turns back to me. “That was quite a hug.”

“Oh, stop it,” I say, my eyes dropping to my feet again. I can feel my cheeks warm. When I look back up, Neil is gently picking Jesus up to greet him, and I’m filled with another rush of golden, glimmering love. It fills my stomach, a bunch of petals affectionately falling off a bush of flowers. Do I love him, do I love him not? The answer has always been that I do.

“Come on,” Terry says, and I let her lead me to the kitchen. Once I enter, Neil turns his smiling gaze to me, and we stare at each other so long in our quiet joy that Jesus starts to laugh. Neil’s head whips around, and his soft smile turns into a big grin, and I can see the beautiful gap in his teeth and the light in his eyes.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Neil questions, and I’ve always loved that he treats Jesus like another human being— not some child to pity, but an equal. I guess that’s why Jesus has always loved Neil almost as much as I do. Jesus only keeps giggling, hiding his little face in Neil’s shirt, which makes Neil look up at me, saying with his fond expression, look at him.

“Somebody’s got the giggles, I see!” Holly says, and she takes Jesus from Neil’s hands, lifting him up over her head. Jesus was getting much bigger, but we were, for the most part, a family of very strong people— but I dreaded the day none of us would be able to carry him anymore.

“So, Neil,” my father starts, clapping a hand on his back. Neil jumps and laughs, awkward but not uncomfortable. “How is life being a doctor?”

“Oh,” Neil says, and he blushes again, and I just think he’s so beautiful that I start to smile. “Uhh— hah, it’s good. I like being a doctor.”

“Any significant life improvements?” My father responds.

“No more school,” Neil shrugs, and then he pauses, taking the time to think about it. “I’m still sort of figuring out what I’m supposed to do next, to be honest. Taking a bit of a break.”

“You? Taking a break?” I joke, and Neil turns to me, directing a sheepish grin my way— and God, he’s beautiful, and I feel butterflies in my stomach and mush in my brain. 

“I, uh, yeah— if you can believe it.” Neil nods, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. “Not for much longer now, my life will kick up soon, but, uhm… A break, yeah. There’s been some other things on my mind, anyway.”

I pause warily, and I wait for him to look back at me so I can understand what he means by that, but he doesn’t. And suddenly the butterflies get a bit anxious, a bit restless, a bit sickening. I try my best not to frown.

“Do people call you Doctor Neil?” Priscilla asks, leaning over with excitement. 

“Uh, Dr. O’Connell. But, yeah, sometimes.” Neil nods. “Not super often yet. Maybe more in the future, I hope. Is it bad to say I want people to call me Doctor? Is that pretentious?”

Dr. O’Connell. Whenever he said his last name, I swear I got literal hearts around my head, swirling and floating and making me dizzy. O’Connell. I’ve always thought it was the most beautiful last name in the world. I have notebooks on notebooks of papers filled with his last name, and hours upon hours spent on saying Carlos O’Connell out loud. O’Connell, O’Connell, O’Connell. I’ve wanted his last name forever. Now, he had the prefix Dr. tagged onto it— something he had worked so long for. To me, it made the surname even more enticing, even more seductive, even more beautiful. Dr. O’Connell.

“Not at all!” Holly says. “You got a PhD, kid. Everyone in the world better call you Doctor!”

“I guess so,” Neil says shyly, looking at his feet and smiling. I love him, and I love him, and I love him. I’ve missed him so much.

“Should we call you Doctor?” Terry questions.

“Uhm, well,” Neil says, and he looks genuinely surprised and embarrassed by the question. He irons out his fingers nervously. “If you want to. You don’t have to.” 

“I want to, Dr. O’Connell.” Teresa smiles, and I see the name wash over Neil, his eyes brightening and his grin returning. Terry always knew how to make people feel special, appreciated. I admired that about her a lot.

“I want to, also, Dr. O’Connell.” Priscilla winks “Oh, we should throw a Dr. O’Connell party! Shouldn’t we?”

“Let’s not overwhelm him with that,” Keith says. I shoot him a glare and then remember myself and turn away.

“If he wants a party, we can throw him one, no worries,” Holly waves her hand. “How about that, Dr. O’Connell?”

“Yeah,” I purr, turning back to him. I tilt my head, my best attempt at trying to gently attract him to me. “How about that, Dr. O’Connell?”

“Uh,” Neil says, and he just stares at me, before clearing his throat aggressively. I almost sigh at my very clear swing-and-miss, the very clear rejection of my flirting. “I’ll get back to you on that. Thanks, guys.”

“Being a doctor is quite respectable, you know.” My father says. “Very impressive.”

“Well, I mean, I’m not a medical doctor. Just… you know.” Neil says, humble as always.

“Bah,” my father says, waving his hand. “No important difference. Both respectable. Very respectable. I’m sure you’ll marry very well now that you’re a doctor. People will be lining up outside the door.”

“Papi!” I say, my eyes widening. I almost want to hit him for that. I look at Neil, and he’s just blinking at my father. I’m so mortified for him that I don’t even know what to say.

“What? It’s true. Very true. Would you rather marry a construction worker or a doctor?” My dad says.

“Hon, you can’t say that.” Holly chuckles, as if it’s all so lighthearted and funny.

“I would hope that people would marry for love instead of a job title,” Teresa says. “And construction workers are also very respectable.”

“Doctor Neil,” Priscilla says, drawing his attention over to her. I can hear the deviousness in her voice and I’m tempted to just put my hand over her mouth and stop her from saying whatever it is she’s about to say. “Do you have any plans to marry for loooove? Is that something you’d like to do?”

I want to tell her to shut up, and want to tell Neil he doesn’t have to answer that and usher him away from my evil, rotten family, but I can’t make my mouth move. I sort of really want to know the answer. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak about marriage or really even love in general. Did he want to get married? It’s a piece of information I would kill to know. I mean, it’s not like him wanting to get married in general meant he would want to marry me, but still— it was a step in the right direction, and when you’re delusional and disgustingly, painfully in love, that can be enough to give me a large amount of hope. But also, if he said no, I think I would just try and kill myself again. No, sorry. Well. Maybe. Like, sometimes it’s easier not to know things, because then you can hope for the answer you want instead of just having a definitive no that discards all other options without wiggle room and effectively ruins your life, which, like, is the whole reason I’ve never actually made a move on him: because I literally cannot take a no from him or I will probably genuinely keep attempting until I succeed. Crazy person things. Make that a hashtag. 

So, I’m stood frozen and silent in fear and anticipation of his answer, unable to do anything but wait for my fate. I watch as his hands come up to smooth over his burning cheeks before dropping to very anxiously twiddle his thumbs and tug on the hem of his shirt. I watch him gulp and blink and furrow his brows.

“Uhhhm,” he starts, and I brace myself, feeling absolutely sick, feeling like vomiting. “I— uhh— I mean, yyyeahh… I-I would like to, one day, if… uhm… yeah.”

I just stare at him. It feels like the entire room is silent for a moment, and I can hardly process Neil’s movements as he grows even more nervous and embarrassed than he already was. He won’t even look at me.

For a moment, his answer makes me mad, incredibly mad, incredibly upset— there must be someone. There must be someone he’s thinking of right now,

someone he must be in love with, someone who’s not me. Was it Mahavir? Was it someone I didn’t even know, like someone smart and intelligent and science-y and way beyond my level? Someone cuter and more attractive and sexier and more Neil’s type than me? The thought makes me spiral, makes me split, I should say (because that’s the horrible new word I was taught), but I try to keep the bubbling anger down. My heart starts to pound, though, and my fingers twitch. I really do feel like throwing up.

“That’s sweet,” Priscilla coos. “I hope you do get to get married one day, Neil. Marriage is nice. Take it from me. And you, too, Carlos. I know you’ve told me you just realllllyyy want to get married so bad. Like super bad. Right? Say, since you guys both want to get married, what if you—“

“Priscilla,” Terry says, stopping Priscilla in her evil, evil tracks. Priscilla grins but shuts her mouth. I would be mad at her if I wasn’t just so scared of what she was about to say.

“Are you staying for dinner, Neil?” Keith asks, breaking the awkward silence we had all fallen into, and now that I’m close to him, I can see the fear hasn’t left his eyes. He’s got that strange look about him, the one that always comes on when we have people over. Like he’s waiting for the dam to break at any moment. The fly buzzes past his face and he jumps. 

“Uhh,” Neil raises his eyebrows at me. His cheeks are still a little red and his voice shakes just slightly, in a way probably only I notice. “If that’s okay?”

“I thought that was the plan,” I say, and Neil nods.

“Yes,” He says, cracking his knuckles, fidgeting with his hands. “But you don’t need to plan it around me or anything.”

“I don’t mind,” Terry says, sitting back down at the counter. “I like cooking your vegetarian food.”

“Thank you,” Neil says, and then he stands there awkwardly, and so does the rest of my family and I. I guess it’s been so long since we’ve really had someone in the house that even Neil has us awkward— I think it’s just been so hard of a year, so hard of a month, that we’re scrambling to figure out what to do. And Neil is Neil— he’s awkward all the time, something I love about him. But also, the whole marriage thing didn’t help.

“Why don’t you guys go sit outside and chat?” Holly says, coming to the rescue as she always does. She nods her head toward the patio.

“It’s a nice day outside,” Neil says. “So…”

“Sure,” I say, realizing he’s waiting on my approval. “Then we can get away from all of you.”

“What did I do?” Priscilla gasps. 

“Cabrona,” I direct towards her lightheartedly, and when Keith’s eyes widen I almost think he’s going to hit me for saying that to his wife, but he doesn’t even tell me off. Instead, my father clicks his tongue at me. 

“Just trying to help,” Priscilla says, pretending to be innocent. “Excuuuuuse me.”

“Come on,” I say to Neil, and he nods and follows me outside, saying one last goodbye to my family. We make our way out to the patio through the door connected to the bridge of space between the kitchen and the living room. I sit down on the porch swing, and Neil comes to sit next to me. He doesn’t sit close enough for our arms to touch, and when I look over, I see he’s actually put as much distance between us as he can on the small length of the porch swing. I try not to let that hurt my feelings and fail. It stings me in a way that feels piercing, burning. 

We sit in silence for a moment before I say, “So, how are you?”

“I’m good,” Neil says, in a way that seems automatic, in a way we’re all trained to respond— so I sit and wait for him to process a real answer. A couple beats later, he says, “I’ve… I’ve been worried about you, actually.”

“Sorry,” I say, and it really seems like all I say lately is sorry. I am sorry. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to those around me. But not a single person has apologized to me except for Terry, who apologizes in the form of gentle looks and hugs and hands on my skin without hesitance. I guess it’s not that they owe me anything, not that they did anything wrong, just that… I don’t know.

“Are you okay?” Neil questions, and I can’t avoid him because he turns his head to look at me, chin tucking under. I want to run away from it, run away from him, but we just sat down. I can’t go anywhere. I can’t do anything but face him. I’ve spent a year running directly from him, several years running indirectly, perhaps even my whole life if you think about it— and yet, I’ve ended up right here. 

“I’m fine. Sorry to worry you.” I say, and it’s just about as automatic an answer as his first. I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. Sorry. That’s all I seem to say lately. I can’t say the real answer. I don’t even want to say the real answer. So I settle on that.

Neil turns to look at my backyard, chewing on his lip. We’ve spent many years in this backyard, though mostly in our childhood. One time, when we were maybe 13 or so, Neil found a wounded bird and held it in his hands as it died. I’ve never forgotten that. He cried that day and so did I— though he cried because of the bird and I cried because I was scared of how much I loved him. Every so often, I imagine his hands cupping me like he cupped that bird, with tenderness and love and care and grief and whatever else. I wish he could whisper me to my death. I wish I could bleed out all over his hands and have him not care. I wish he could pretend to save me while I die.

“Holly said you got in an accident.” Neil says, and I see him look at me out of the corner of his eye, gaze assessing my body. I curl up upon myself, trying to hide. I don’t want him looking at my skinny, hairy arms. I don’t want him to somehow see the scars through my shirt. I don’t want him to see right through me like he always does. “I texted her a few times because I was worried. She eventually said you were in the hospital.”

“Did she..?” I say, and I feel my lip start to shake. I turn my head away so he doesn’t see it.

“What happened?” Neil asks, and I can hear the genuine worry in his voice. I want to tell him but I can’t. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get the words out to him. It would only make him feel worse anyway.

“Nothing,” I say, and I bring one of my knees up to my chest. I try to look casual. I try to look normal. “I’m fine.”

“Clearly something happened, Carlos.” Neil says, and he scoots a bit closer to me. I can feel him even though we aren’t touching. I can feel him on my skin, dancing across it. He’s staring at me now, and I’m sure his eyes are doing that desperate, pleading thing. I can’t look at him. I can’t breathe, I don’t think. 

Before I can think about it, I say, “I just got in a stunt accident with Zephrya. It’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine. Concussion.”

“No, that’s not true!” Neil says, and I almost think he’s going to slam his hand down onto my leg, but he doesn’t. His hand stops mid-air and then cards through his hair. I can’t help but look at him now, scared. Does he know I’m scared of him? “Because I talked to Zephrya, and she said she hadn’t heard from you in over a month. And don’t tell me that you did something with Chandrai or Kaia, either, because they said the same thing. And so did your manager, and so did Charlie, and so did Summer and Beckett, and so did Carmela, and so did— everyone! Everyone, Carlos! You’ve been M.I.A. and you won’t tell me why!”

“God!” I say, and I think there’s tears in my throat, so I drop my head to my hands. I tug at my hair. I try my best not to cry, but my face is burning and hurting like it’s sore. “I—“ I stop, because I don’t know what to say that’s not stupid. I don’t know what to say that’s not mean. I don’t know what to say that doesn’t reveal everything I don’t want him to know. I sit, and I breathe, and he lets me. I look up at him and I say, “… You talked to Vale?”

Neil’s eyebrows furrow. His mouth opens, closes. He sighs. “Yes.”

“Why?” I ask. “You hate Valentina.”

He seems to grow even more confused. “What?”

“You hate Valenti—“ I start, but he cuts me off.

“I was worried about you, Carlos! What are you not understanding?” He says, and it sort of rips out of him. It’s painful to hear and I can’t stop my eyes from welling up with tears anymore. His eyes shake as he watches me start to cry, and his mouth sits just barely open, like he’s desperately trying to understand. When he does turn away, he covers his face with his hands. Quietly, he says, “Is this it?”

“What?” I say, and it comes out a watery croak.

“Is this it, Carlos?” He lifts his head and stares at me. I see that his eyes are watery, too. I’ve made him cry. I want to kill myself. I don’t know what he means by his words and it must show on my face, because he gestures between us and says, “This. Us. I— I mean, are we done?”

“I—“ I start, and I don’t even know how to comprehend what he’s asking me, and yet I know exactly what he means, exactly what he’s saying; I know he’s been addressing the way we’ve been falling apart for so long now, how we can never stay on the right track, how there’s always something wrong. And I know that it’s all my fault. I know that everything is my fault. I know that I’m the one who’s been pushing him away, been fighting with him, been ignoring him and keeping things from him and making him feel like shit. I’m the one who’s torn us apart, and he’s the one who has been holding on desperately, doing everything to keep us together, taking every blow I throw at him no matter how harsh. I understand that he really must love me— not in the way I wanted him to, perhaps, but he loves me. Loved. And I fucked it up, like I’ve fucked up everything else in my life. Before I can stop it, a sob comes out of my mouth, and before I can say anything after, the patio door opens.

“Here comes Junior!” Holly says, her voice fake-cheery. Junior comes rushing out the door, running to jump on Neil and rub his snout all over him. She looks at me, a sad smile on her face, and shuts the patio door. I mouth that I love her before she shuts it, because I know she’s trying to help me. I know she’s always tried to help me, and I’ve never taken any of her help.

“Hi, Junior,” Neil says softly, and he pets Junior as best as he can while Junior excitedly jumps around him. We sit in silence as he does this, until Junior finally settles down at Neil’s feet, content with just the scratches Neil repeats on the top of his head. 

“… You’re my best friend.” Neil says, and I hear a soft tone of tears in his voice. I’ve seen him cry so many times this past year, when I didn’t use to see him cry at all. “I… I just… I don’t know what I’d do without you, Carlos. I don’t know how I’d… I don’t… I mean, I don’t know how to exist without you. I know that sounds so— so stupid, so childish. But I don’t. And I— I just can’t stand the thought of you… not being here. I don’t want to think that our friendship is over. But it’s gotten really hard to keep ignoring it. Ignoring everything.”

His voice breaks at the end of his sentence, and I can’t stop the tears that come, so I just let them fall. I let myself cry like a fool. I shake my head at him, shake it and shake it and then let out another sob. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and I really do mean it. My throat burns. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Neil, I don’t— I don’t wanna— I’m so fucking sorry, I promise I—“ 

But I cut myself off. What can I promise anymore? I’ve promised so many things throughout my life and fallen through on almost all of them. There’s nothing I can promise him, not anymore, so I just cover my eyes, digging into the sockets with the bottom of my palms.

“Carlos,” Neil whispers, and his hand comes forward to sit on my shoulder. 

“Yeah?” I whimper, stupidly, and I look up at him slightly. He’s frowning at me. I see a tear run down his cheek.

“Tell me we’re not over,” Neil breathed shakily. “That’s all you have to say. Tell me you still want me and mean it.”

“I w-want you forever,” I say, and I’ve never meant anything more in my life. 

“Do you mean it?” Neil says, and I can hear that they’re scared. Scared, but hopeful. Desperate to have hope. Desperate to believe me. I hate that I’ve made him so desperate.

“Yes,” I breathe, and I can feel anything but the burning and closing of my throat and the ravishment of the air in my lungs and his hand on my shoulder. “Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not leaving,” Neil says, and his eyebrows furrow with concern. “Oh, Carlos, I’m— God, I’m not leaving. I’m never gonna—“ They choke, and I see them really cry. It doesn’t last long, but for a moment, they can’t speak. Their hand comes up to cup my face. Their other hand comes to match it. “I’m never gonna leave. I thought you were leaving.”

“No,” I sob, but the answer is yes, I was leaving. Not him, but everyone. I did try to leave. I have tried to leave. I cannot promise I won’t try to leave again. I can’t promise anything except that I love him. So I lie, even though part of me does really mean it. “I could never leave you.”

“Okay,” Neil nods, and I see emotion overcome him. I feel his fingers shake against my cheeks. I see him absorb me, absorb my face. He wipes a few of my tears and gulps. His hands drop to my shoulders.  “Can I—“ 

“Yes,” I say, agreeing to anything he wants, and in less than a second he’s grabbing me and wrapping me in a tight hug, holding me like his life depends on it. I do the same, bunching his stupid shirt in my hands, dropping my head to sob into the crook of his neck. He only holds onto me tighter, pulls me farther into him until I’m almost on his lap. I don’t know which of us needs this hug more. I vomit out the words, “I’m so sorry— I’m so sorry, but you have to know it’s not about you— God, it’s not about you, you’re the only thing I have, you’re all I’ve ever had— I can’t say it, Neil, I can’t explain it, but it’s been so— it’s been so hard, it’s all been so hard, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I—“

It’s all nonsense, but Neil seems to somehow understand. He always does, even if he doesn’t see the bigger picture. Maybe he doesn’t need to— maybe he just sees me, who I am right now, in this moment. Maybe that’s all I need from him. 

“You’re okay, Carlos.” Neil says, rubbing my back. “As long as you’re okay. As long as we’re okay. We can work through it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say, and I mean it. I mean it so fucking much. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore. But — I—“

“I know,” Neil says, and he pulls back, but not much. Just enough to stare into my eyes. His hands come back to my face. “My sweet. My sweetness. Carlos.”

I melt. “Yeah?”

“Just let me do it with you,” Neil says. “Whatever it is. Whatever’s hurting you. Do it by my side.”

I want to say yes so bad. I shut my eyes as tight as I can. I want to say yes so bad. I want to tell him. I wish I was able to tell him. I wish I was able to let him in. I wish, and I wish, and I want and I want, and none of it amounts to anything. It never has.

“I can’t,” I whisper, ashamed. I open my eyes and look back into his, emerald green and brighter with tears. “God, I wish I could. I can’t.”

Neil frowns. His lip quivers. He nods. 

“Okay,” he breathes. His eyes drop from mine. He doesn’t pull back, though. He chews his lip, thinks. Then, “But you’re okay? You’re not hurt?”

“I’m okay now,” I say, a lie. “I’m okay. It was an accident. It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Neil repeats. He leans in, pressing our foreheads together. He looks back into my eyes, and then his eyes move all around my face. His fingers trace my cheekbones and my chin, the stubble on my skin, wipe tears away. I can feel his hot breath from his open mouth on my lips. I bring my hands up, holding onto his wrists. I press my forehead back into his, hoping that if I press hard enough, we’ll merge together. That we’ll become one; no longer separate but instead the same. I want to crawl into his open mouth and live in his ribcage. I want to curl around his beating heart for warmth. I want to wear his muscle like a blanket. I want to live inside his body forever. I want him to hold me like this forever. I want him forever.

I want you forever. I want you forever. I want you forever. 

“You’re so beautiful, Carlos,” Neil whispers, and it sounds like a prayer, like something I haven’t heard before. It startles me, but I’m stuck where I am, our foreheads sinking together, melting into one another. My eyes can’t budge from his. I am one with him. I want him forever. We are one and we are infinite. “Sometimes I can’t even look at you. You’re so beautiful. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

He’s so honest and so raw. Every time he compliments me, it means something. I’m so used to hearing it from everyone else that it hardly means anything anymore. But it means everything coming from him. I can’t even speak. I’m his eternally. I’m not myself— I’m an extension of him. I belong to him. He has every piece of me. I want him forever. I wish I could rip my face off and hand it to him. I wish I could let him keep me like a trinket. I wish I could sit on his shelf. I want him forever. I can’t speak, I’m immobilized, and I feel him press his forehead against mine further; his mouth opens again, I feel his breathing, and I keep my mouth open just for the chance to inhale some of that air, for the chance to have something of him inside me, something that was inside him in my lungs. I have his breath on my tongue, and he’s pulling back just slightly, taking my hand. He presses his lips to my palm, lets them linger there, intimate and loving and everything I’ve ever wanted. I want him to take his teeth to my skin and rip it open. I want him to devour me whole. I want him forever.

Before I can find something to say, Junior whimpers below us and nudges his snout between our bodies, demanding our attention. I let out a breath and sit backwards, reeling. Neil blinks for a second before doing the same.

“Sorry, Junior,” he says, and lets Junior sit his head between his knees, looking up at him. He cups Junior’s face in his hands, stroking his fur, scratching his head. I desperately wish he would do that to me. I wish he’d love me like that. I wish he’d cum on my face while I sit between his legs. I wish he’d marry me. I want him forever.

For a minute or so, we sit in silence. I regain my steady breathing and I think he does the same. We recover from the emotional rollercoaster we just went on. I watch him and he watches my dog. 

“Have you been in Julia this whole time?” Neil asks me once our time of silence is apparently over.

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you running from something?” Neil asks.

“Yes,” I say honestly.

“From me?” He asks.

“No,” I say, partially dishonest but mostly honest. 

“Are you in danger?” Neil questions. 

Yes. 

“No,” I say. “I’m okay. I’m running from—“ I stop. I swallow. I bite the bullet and feel it return to its spot in the back of my brain. “Just running from myself, I guess.”

“What do you mean?” Neil asks, confused.

“Neil,” I plead. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” Neil nods. “Okay, I’m sorry. But you can talk to. me if you ever change your mind. Don’t be scared to talk to me.”

“I know,” I say, because he doesn’t understand.

Another minute of silence passes. It’s only slightly painful this time. Once it’s done, Neil says, “He really does look like you.”

“Hmm?” I question, but I think I know what they mean.

“Junior,” He says, glancing at me before looking back down at my dog. There’s a small smile on his face. “He has your eyes. Your same eyes. He looks like you.”

“Oh,” I say, and I feel the tears burning my nose again. 

“Have you ever heard that phrase? That dogs look like their owners?” Neil chuckles. An arrow goes straight through my heart, one made of ice and snow and everything cold and frozen. But the coldness is not unkind— just painful.

“Yeah,” I croak. “I might’ve heard that before.”

“Beautiful eyes,” Neil says softly, tenderly. The tenderness doesn’t fix the hole in my heart. I feel my blood start to seep through my shirt. My hand comes up to clutch my chest, trying to stop the awful, squeezing pain. I can see her eyes in my head. I can smell her and feel her long hands and hear her voice. She was wearing white that day. “Such beautiful eyes.”

“Fuck,” I say, unable to help myself— and I can’t take the pain in my chest, so I start to scramble in the pocket of my sweatpants, trying to grab one of the loose cigarettes in my pocket. I put my hand down the other one to try and grab my lighter. “Fuck, I— Neil, do you mind if I smoke?”

Neil stops completely. He turns to look at me, he sits up. His eyebrows furrow, but not with concern. His smile drops fully. 

“..What?” He questions. 

“I need to—“ I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and lift it to my lips. My skinny wrists come into view. I start to click my old lighter on. Moving my lips around the cigarette, I say, “I’m sorry, do you mind?”

“When did you start smoking again?” Neil asks, his tone cold. This coldness is not kind.

“I don’t know, Neil,” I say, my breathing getting shallower, my panic growing. “Fuck.”

“When?” Neil demands. “I thought you quit.”

“A couple weeks ago, I don’t know, Neil,” I say, and I can’t take the pain in my chest, I can’t take it, I think I’m dying. I hear something in the distance. I hear a siren. I see strands of his blonde hair being blown by the breeze. I light the cigarette and take a drag, shutting my eyes. When I open them, he’s staring at me still. Wordlessly, he stands up. He scoffs in disbelief, and then turns and walks inside. Junior follows him because he prefers his company rather than the company of his miserable, shit owner. “Wait, Neil,” I say, but he shuts the door. I watch him walk inside and get greeted by my family. He turns around and glances at me outside on the porch, cigarette in hand, and then goes farther into the house, where I can’t see. “Fuck!”

Once he’s in the house, there’s nothing left for me to do but finish the cigarette I lit and make a home for him in the hole I just dug for myself. I needed the cigarette anyway. Really bad. For a moment, it helps the pain. Just for a moment, it’s worth it.

I mean, where did he get off making me feel like an ass for smoking? It’s not like he understood it. He didn’t understand nicotine, he didn’t understand addiction, and he sure as hell didn’t understand what it was like to be me. He had no idea what it was like. He  had no idea how badly I needed something to help me pretend like I was numbing the pain. I quit for him for a few years anyway, wasn’t that enough? Hadn’t I worked hard enough? Didn’t I deserve to smoke now, if smoking was the method of self-harm I had to take in order not to try and kill myself? I sure as hell think I do. But he would never get it. I needed these cigarettes, God, I did. And he could fuck off.

It makes me genuinely mad, and so I keep sitting outside even after I’ve finished smoking. Suddenly, I didn’t care that Neil was inside with my family doing whatever away from me. I didn’t care that he was upset with me, that I was pushing him away again. He could kiss my ass— he did it to himself. I’m quite stuck in my anger until the patio door opens behind me and I whip my head around. I hoped to see Neil, but all I see instead is Keith. Keith, Keith, Keith. I see him, and he looks like a corpse to me. I can practically see him covered in my blood.

“…What are you doing?” Keith says, and I can tell he’s being ginger about it, or nervous, or both, or whatever the right fucking word is for it. He’s being Keith about it, but not the old Keith. The new Keith that trembles in my presence and can’t look me in the eye and treats his wife like trash. The Keith I created, sewn up with haphazard thread around the joints, bolts sticking out of his neck. The thread still hangs from a string that dangles off of his chest, poking out of where his heart had to be sewn back in. Or.. whatever. 

“What does it look like, Keith?” I say, and I should feel bad for giving him attitude, and actually, I do. I do feel bad. I feel bad about everything. Part of me wants to kiss him, in a way I can’t describe— my brother, who I’ve ruined. I wish I could capture him in stained glass and return him to how he was before he met me. I wish I could restore his golden halo. I wish I could put his burnt-off wings back together. I wish I could breathe the innocence and beauty back into him, kneel before him and press my lips to the top of his foot. But that’s enough about Keith, I think.

“Neil is inside,” he says, avoiding my question like he avoids everything else. 

“I was wondering where he went,” I say sarcastically, turning back around.

“Come inside,” Keith says. Stern. Not all there. 

“Make me,” I say, quietly under my breath. It comes out a very small fraction of how that phrase used to land. I want to repeat it, but I don’t. I can’t. I hope he grabs me by the hair and rips me out of my chair. I hope he drags me back inside. I hope he beats me until I bleed, until I die. Not because I want to have sex with him, but because I believe I really deserve it. To die.

“Nobody can make you do anything.” Keith says unexpectedly, voice somber. “You don’t listen to what anybody says is good for you.”

“You flatter me,” I snort, looking back at him. He’s frowning. 

“Nothing about that was a compliment. You’re—“ His voice is harsh, and he cuts himself off. I know he wants to say more, and I know he stops himself because he’s scared. I used to love when he was scared of me. Not so much anymore. He shakes his head and turns away, going back inside.

“Sorry,” I choke out, and I’ve maybe said the word to him three times total in our lives. Just the single word makes me tear up again, and suddenly my anger is all gone. I’m pathetic and I don’t care when Keith’s the only one I have to face. I used to wish we would be buried in matching coffins. I still think we will be one day. Our lives are endlessly, disgustingly, horrifically intertwined. Our lives will both end with the mixing of our blood, and maybe then we’ll finally be real brothers. Maybe our bodies with decompose into each other and make a bleeding, weeping, willow of a tree, with branches that hang with every tear we shed over the other, stump full of rings to count every punch we ever threw. Something else I never say, but comes out of me before I can stop it: I say, “I love you.”

He looks at me and in this moment he’s truly shocked, his eyebrows furrowed together and his lips parted. He stares at me, fingers drumming on the doorway, and I know he’s fighting something inside himself, but I don’t know what and I never will. He scratches the scruff on his face, and I think that he’s going to either turn and go inside or give me some phrase that tells me he loves me, too, without actually saying the words, like something from the movies. Instead, though, he inhales, and he blinks away tears, and his chest moves with a deep breath. Instead, he says, “I’ve always loved you, Carlos.”

I just stare at him, not knowing what to say to that. I don’t know what to say to that, but I feel it in me, I feel it in me like I’ve never felt anything before. We stare at each other, and something passes between us. I don’t know what it is. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell you what it is. I can hardly describe it except that it does feel like he’s kissing me, but not in the way other people kiss, not in any sense you could imagine— he places his hand on my soul and I hold his face in my hands and I watch baseball games and bloody noses and family dinners and arguments and wiffle ball in the backyard and hot dogs on the grill pass by me like stars and I think, for the first time, I kind of understand him. I think he’s always understood me and I’m just now seeing Keith for the first time. After everything, he loves me, and I understand that this is the man my sister fell in love with, and I think I’ve always been a little in love with him, too, and a little bit of everything else as well, every other way you can love a person. I think he’s a part of me. I think I’m a part of him. I think our lives are always going to be tied together and that’s okay. 

For the first time, I feel peace between us. 

I lift up my hand toward him, and he gently takes it, gentle out of what seems to be both love and fear. I want to tell him that I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to tell him I love him like a brother, and that he’s the only big brother I’ve ever had. I want to tell him that I don’t want him to be scared of me anymore. I don’t tell him any of that, though, because I’m sure he knows it. 

“Neil is waiting for you.” Keith says. He turns around and walks back inside the house, and I’m struck with a very odd feeling about what things would have been like, could have been like in another life.

I look back toward the backyard, giving myself one last  moment before I go head inside. It’s bright green and there are small patches of weeds and dead grass. It smells like the surrounding forest. I rub my hands together and let it take over me, just for a second. I can’t see her, but I know she’s there. Frolicking in the grass. Laughing. Running in and out of a sprinkler. I know she’s coming to sit beside me, grinning and tossing her head back, stretching out her muddy little feet. I can feel her with me, just for a moment. 

“I love you, baby,” I whisper, and I make the sign of the cross and then press a kiss to my index fingers, holding them up in front of me. A breeze rustles past my hand, cooling my fingertips where I had just pressed my lips.

There was once a time where I pictured the rest of my life here in Julia. I try not to do that anymore.

With a sigh, I heave myself off the porch swing and head inside. There’s laughter in the house, which comes to me as soon as I open the door. I’m glad they can find a way to laugh when I’m not around. Jesus’ little giggles bubble on top of the rest, spreading throughout the house like they’re being blown from a plastic wand. It feels like a warm hug, in a really awful and devastating way. At least my baby brother is real.

Neil looks up at me from where he’s gently tossing Jesus around the couch. He pauses, saying something quietly to Jesus before putting him down. There’s a smile on his face and it’s beautiful. Neil’s never had any siblings— he’s always been very attached to Jesus. He beckons me over to him with his hand. I wonder if he’s still mad at me for the cigarette— I know I’m not mad at him anymore. It’s hard to be mad at him once I start seriously thinking about my life, and how throughout everything, he’s always been there. He’s always been by my side when I let him.

“Hi,” he says to me when I sit next to him, and Jesus comes to sit between us. Neil sits closer to me, our legs touching, so Jesus can use our laps like a chair. He settles and starts to sign towards Terry and Priscilla, who are sitting on the other couch across from us. They’re not talking to us, though. Neil is just looking at me.

“Sorry,” I say quietly, not bothering to expand. I don’t need to repeat it in front of my family, and he already knows what I’m apologizing for.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Neil responds. “I can’t dictate your life.”

I would like it if you did, I want to say. I wish I could live a life in your shape. I wish I could do whatever you wanted. I wish I could be perfect for you. I’m sorry I can’t be perfect.

“You just care,” I say, and I nod to let him know I wanna leave it at that. He nods back at me, bumping our shoulders together. I respond by dipping my head down and laying my head on his.

“Here, by the way.” Neil says, and he reaches into one of the pockets on his cargo shorts and pulls out a bag of candy. They’re Lifesavers gummies, the sour ones in the green bag. One of my favorite candies. I can’t help but smile. “I forgot to give these to you.”

“I love these,” I say, even though he knows that, and I take them and immediately rip open the top. I find a strawberry one and put it in my mouth. It tastes like heaven. I haven’t had candy in a while. I sigh blissfully. “Thank you, Nodin.”

“Haha,” He laughs breathily. I think it’s because I used his birth name. I think he likes it when I do that. “No problem.”

I use one of my hands to adjust his head so it’s sitting in the crook of my neck. I hear him breathe softly and I shut my eyes, listening to the happy sounds of my family. For a moment, I’m peaceful.

When dinner rolls around, we all sit around the table for once. We haven’t all eaten dinner at the same time in a while, or in the same place. With Neil here, though, it feels like we can pretend to be normal, pretend like we still do this all the time. Neil makes the house brighter, makes it happier, makes it better. Or maybe he just does that for me, and I’ve been holding everybody else back. 

Neil sits down next to me after he finishes helping Terry set the table, and I feel bold enough to do the shit I used to do without feeling self-conscious about it, so I scoot my chair closer to his. He looks up at me and smiles. It’s about the hundredth time he’s smiled at me today, the billionth time he’s smiled at me in my entire life, and yet I still get butterflies and feel myself blush.

“Where’s your water?” They question, and I look down at my place.

“Forgot to get one,” I shrug.

“Hold on,” they say, and they stand from the table, walking toward the kitchen. They put their hand on my shoulder as they pass, casually and lovingly, and I watch them grab me a glass from the cabinet and start to fill it up. From the tap built into the fridge, with three ice cubes. It feels incredibly intimate, the whole thing. Like he’s my husband who’s a part of this house, just as much as Keith is with Cilla. I blush even more like a little kid and stare at my lap. 

“Wish my husband would get me water,” Priscilla says. I know she’s joking because she’s got a full glass in front of her (tap from the fridge with two ice cubes, filled exactly ¾ of the way through), which Keith had put down a couple of minutes ago like he had always done. Her words still startle him to attention, though, and he looks down at her place to make sure it’s there. She laughs at him, swatting him and making him smile. It’s good to see them smiling. “Babe!”

“Just checking,” Keith says bashfully.

“You two are acting awfully romantic,” my father says, in Spanish so Neil won’t understand from the kitchen.

“We’re just acting how we always do, papi,” I respond, dipping my head in embarrassment. It was always embarrassing to hear those comments from my father. He was the first person who I fully admitted to that I liked men. He’s always supported me, in his own way people might not understand. Still, it was embarrassing to talk about. I didn’t want my father teasing me. Not when it felt so trivial and shallow when he said it— not when he was the number one person I was trying to impress.

“Exactly,” he nods, and he winks at me. 

“Eso mihmo,” Neil says, repeating the words my dad had just said, coming up behind me and setting down my glass in front of me. He pulls out his seat and sits back down beside me. Teresa follows soon after, setting the moro de habichuelas pot down on the table. “That’s, like— ‘that’s it’, right?”

“Ay! Brutal!” My father says, bursting into a grin. He reaches forward and excitedly shakes Neil by the shoulders. Neil tenses slightly but doesn’t pull away, and smiles with a very attractive mix of triumph and embarrassment. “A fuego! Si, mijito!”

“Cool,” Neil nods, his eyes crinkling at the sides. I’m so in love with him that I feel sick. My dad pats his back very enthusiastically before pulling back. I always loved whenever he treated Neil affectionately… there were often times where he treated Neil like another son in the way he had grown to treat Keith. It made me happy beyond measure.

“Very good!” He says, in English now. “That’s my boy. Keep it up and you’ll be part of the family in no time.”

“Oh,” Neil says, his eyes widening. He glances at me and I gulp, but he still smiles, as if he hadn’t understood that my father practically asked him to marry me just now. Maybe I’m just neurotic. He shrugs, fiddling with his hands. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Ehh, we’ll see, mijo. We’ll see.” He then winks before chuckling heartily. He doesn’t feel the need to mask his thick accent when Neil is around and I’ve always loved that. He does this thing at work and in public where he talks with a very American accent rather than speak naturally. He does it with most people outside of the family. Not with Neil, though. And Neil’s never been weird about it either. He’s never looked at me and said ‘I can’t understand what he’s saying’. I appreciate that, too.

“Yeah, keep it up and you’ll be better than Priscilla.” I say, and she gasps dramatically from across the table.

“Hey!” She pouts. “I’m trying my best!”

“She’s trying her best,” Keith affirms, and I smile at that. 

“Your Spanish always sounds good to me, Priscilla,” Neil adds, trying to be kind. I know he has no idea what good Spanish sounds like.

“Gracias,” Cilla responds, and her pronunciation is starkly high school Spanish class, but I respect her for trying. I love her a lot.

Teresa starts to serve everyone, and it smells delicious like everything she cooks. I don’t know when she started getting so good at cooking. I keep telling her she should pursue being a chef, but she keeps telling me she doesn’t want to. She definitely could, though. She has the talent and then some.

“This looks amazing, Teresa,” Neil says, and I can tell he really does mean it. He doesn’t often say things he doesn’t mean, but he can be half-hearted on occasion. But he meant that, and it makes me emotional to know he loves my sister’s food, and that he loves my sister and my family, and that he fits so well into my life. It makes me feel like for a moment that there might come a day someday where I’m sitting here with a ring on my finger and so is he, and once we’re done visiting, we’ll go back to our own house.

“Oh, thank you,” Terry smiles. I know she thinks he’s just saying that. She’s always been very humble. 

So, we have our first normal dinner in a while. I wish I could thank Neil for it, but that would be odd. He doesn’t know anything’s wrong. He doesn’t know what’s been going on. I want to keep it that way. I also need to thank Holly for not telling him what was really going on sometime. I think I should honestly be more appreciative to my whole family for what they’ve been doing for me. I should be a lot of things.

About halfway through our dinner, Neil asks Teresa, “How has firefighting been going?”

“Oh,” Teresa says, and she covers her mouth to finish chewing. “It’s been good.”

“She’s a natural!” Holly chuckles out heartily. “Saving lives. I’m very proud of her.”

“Thank you, mami,” Teresa smiles shyly. Her cheeks turn a dark, rosy shade.

“I thought you would like it,” Neil says, setting his fork down for a moment after swallowing his bite of food. “I was very impressed when you told me you were going to pursue it. It makes sense for you. I think you were meant to do a lot of good.”

“Thank you, Neil.” Teresa says, and I can see that she’s a little shocked that someone had that thought about her. “That means a lot to me.”

“Oh,” Neil says, and he must not have realized the weight of his words before he said them, because he seems surprised. I watch him internally track over what he said. I think it means so much because he’s not trying to flatter her or anything like that— he’s just being honest. He’s so sweet to my little sister that I just want to grab him and kiss him. I want to run away with him and marry him and spend my life with him. I want him forever. “It’s no problem.”

“I think we’re all making good here,” Teresa says, modestly looking down at her plate. She pushes around her own (delicious, by the way) food with her fork. “In our own ways.”

I snort at the same time Priscilla laughs. Everyone else turns and frowns at the two of us. I look at her from across the table and we share a look.

“What’s so funny, huh?” My father demands. “Always laughing, the two of you. Your sister said something sweet.”

“I don’t think I’m changing any lives,” Priscilla shrugs. “I just do hair. But thanks, sissy.”

“And what the hell does Keith do?” I add, chuckling. Keith rolls his eyes at me, but it’s playful. Lighthearted. It makes my heart flutter in an odd way. 

“Hey!” Priscilla says. “Leave him alone. He helps people find meaning in their lives through exercise.”

“Thank you,” Keith says, turning towards her. She smiles at him softly and I watch him melt. I fiddle with my fork. 

“You guys do plenty good.” Neil says, but I don’t know how he can think that when he’s doing research to save rainforests, and Holly and Terry are fighting fires and saving lives, and my father is fighting corporations and fighting for immigrants through his business, and then the other three of us are just… existing. I guess Priscilla does help bring people joy, and Keith does add meaning to people’s lives— he gives people jobs, he gives them exercise and clubs and community, he coaches little league sports. But me, on the other hand…

“Well, I don’t do anything,” I snort, and Priscilla catches my eye and we share another look. There’s a solidarity between us for a moment— Priscilla really is just like me. And I know above all else, it’s always been the two of us. She’s always been like my twin sister. We’re the two disappointments, so to speak. The dumb ones. 

Neil stops and looks at me, and so does everybody else. “Are you serious?” Neil questions, and his index finger scratches the bottom of his chin. He’s got a bit of scruff there, and there’s dirt under his fingernail. Both of these things are very attractive on him. They are not on me.

“Well, yeah,” I shrug, suddenly feeling awkward. I look around, and everybody is basically just staring at me with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re famous, Carlos.” Keith says, like I’m stupid.

“I’m aware,” I respond.

“No, I just mean—“ Keith starts, and then he stops again. He pinches his brows. “Like, you’re a celebrity.”

“I know that.” I say, getting confused. “What’s your point?”

“Well, of course you’re doing something, Carlos.” Terry says, and now I really do feel like there’s something I’m not understanding. 

“I sing songs and dance and slut myself out in front of an audience,” I say, trying to be lighthearted about it. I want to add, or, at least, I used to, but I don’t. “I don’t think there’s anything special about that.”

“But you matter to people, Carlos,” Terry pushes. “It’s more than just that. You really matter to people. You really impact people’s lives.”

“Yes,” my father adds, to my surprise. “You’ve got all those crazy fans who love what you do. You’re very talented at what you do.”

“Oh,” I say, and I feel my throat close up a little and my nose starts to burn again. I just stare at my dad, who awkwardly goes back to eating his food, before blinking and turning to look at my plate. I didn’t want to cry again, but I was suddenly overcome with emotion at the praise. It meant a lot, but especially coming from my dad. “Well.”

“Yeah,” Neil says. “I see, like, all these videos of people who are talking about how you inspire them. There’s a lot of ways. Some people say your music resonates with them, some people say you get them through a hard time. Some people appreciate that you’re openly queer. Many people are happy to see a Latino man succeed.”

“..You watch videos about me?” I say quietly, because I’m so emotional that I can’t really say much else. I guess you don’t really realize the impact you have when you’re the one doing the impact.

“Uh, yeah, I mean— sometimes.” Neil shrugs, eyes skirting away. “Stuff… pops up, and people also send me things because they know I know you, so. I mean, so many people know who you are, it’s crazy.”

“They really do,” Teresa laughs, slightly apprehensive. “It’s really… wild knowing you’re a famous celebrity now.”

“It’s been amazing watching it happen, kid.” Holly smiles.

“I still can’t believe it, honestly,” Keith chuckles. “But you really did it. You’ve been doing it.”

“Yes,” my dad says, and in husky Spanish he says to me, “I’m so proud of you for everything you’ve done.”

“Oh,” I gasp, and I bring my hands together to clasp, trying to hold the tears in. I press my eyebrows together as tightly as I can.

“There are so many people, Carlos,” Neil says, and I turn and see him looking at me with so much meaning that it’s hard for me to really understand it, hard for me to even grasp it. “So many people who would be lost without you in their lives. I think… I think that’s doing good. That’s a start, at least. You’ve impacted more people than we have.”

“He’s right,” Priscilla adds softly. She doesn’t really speak softly to me anymore, but I look up at her and I understand why she’s doing it. I understand her message. I understand what she’s saying to me— she wants me to stick around. My life has meaning.

“Fuck,” I laugh, and I awkwardly wipe my tears as quickly as I can. I’m completely overwhelmed by emotion, but in a good way this time. I feel really loved right now. “Uh, thanks guys. Wow.” 

“It’s just the truth,” Keith says, without looking me in the eye.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks,” I say, before trying to switch the conversation back up again, no longer wanting the attention on me, and definitely not wanting to cry again. “So, uh, Terry— why don’t you tell Neil about your new boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Neil says, his eyebrows raising.

“Carlos…” Terry grumbles, and she shyly covers her face. 

“She met him on the job,” Priscilla says, waggling her eyebrows. “She saved his life! He’s a park ranger.”

“Like, a tour guide,” Teresa mumbles.

“Really?” Neil says, settling in to listen as Teresa bashfully gushes about her boyfriend, Adley. I don’t listen to a word they all say, though, because Neil’s hand nudges my leg under the table. When I drop my own hand to answer his prompting, he takes it in his hand and holds onto it. For years, he’s always sat on my left side at every table, because that means I can hold his hand while we eat. He’s ambidextrous, but usually uses his left hand, and I’m right-handed, and so we can sit and hold hands while we eat without it being an issue. Just… in a platonic way, of course. But it makes me giddy and feel so romantic and special. I can’t wipe the smile from my face for the rest of dinner, and every time I look over at him, I see that, apparently, neither can he.

After dinner, Priscilla and Keith head back to their own house so they can settle in for the night (Priscilla being 8 months pregnant and all), and the rest of my family settles into the living room to watch a movie. I want to spend some time with Neil though, just us two, and so I lead him down to the basement. We sit on the couch that faces the television, the old one we’ve never replaced that smells a little bit like dust and basement air. I couldn’t even think about counting how many times we had sat on this couch. Still, it never gets old. Once Neil is comfortable, I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his torso. He smiles at me.

“My parents say hi, by the way.” He says, and his hand comes up to gently thread through my hair. He plays with the long parts that sit on my shoulders, the ones I desperately want to hack off. He doesn’t seem to think it looks bad, though. At least, if he does, he’s hiding it pretty well. “They also miss you. But they’ve missed you for years.”

“Well, tell them I say hi.” I say, leaning into his hands. His hands are the only thing I want to feel for the rest of my life. I wish he could take me apart and put me back together. I wish he could fix me. 

“I will,” Neil nods. In the moody lighting of the basement, his cheekbones are illuminated. They’re sharp, just like the stunning slope of his nose and the slant of his eyes and the curve of his lips. He’s genuinely the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in the world. I look for the beauty of him in everything else around me. I search for him in everything. “My mother always says that the only place she sees you lately is on a TV screen. On MTV, she says. I don’t think MTV really works like that anymore, though.”

“Oh,” I say, and I look away to hide how sad that makes me. It feels like that’s what most people in my life have to say about me nowadays. I’ll never forget fighting with Kaia over the same thing. As many people as I’ve apparently impacted with my music, I wonder how many people I’ve seriously hurt. Likely much, much less— but the quality of those people, to me, is much higher than the large quantity of the masses that are my fans. “… I’ll try and come over sometime.”

“You don’t have to,” Neil shrugs. “But they’d like that.”

“I will,” I affirm. “I want to. I miss your parents.”

“Hmm,” Neil says. His hand comes from my hair to gently tilt my chin toward his face. My breath hilts, and I shut my mouth to hide the way I can’t help but hold it in anticipation. His smile is soft and his eyes are gooey. I want him forever and ever. In a way that feels falsely flirtatious and coy, he says, “What about me?”

“Like, do I miss you?” I say, my voice shaking. I gulp. I know he’s not actually flirting with me on purpose, I know he never would, but sometimes he talks to me in a way that makes me feel like he is. He has no idea the ways he absolutely seduces me without even trying, seduces me by just being him. He makes my knees weak and makes me feel lightheaded. He makes me completely lose my footing. 

“Yeah,” Neil nods, and his thumb brushes my skin softly. His hand is warm, and the tip of his finger barely grazes my bottom lip. I feel electricity shoot down my entire body, and I just hope I’m not looking up at him like a lovesick puppy. Or a puppy pathetically in heat. 

“Of course,” I nod, and I shift my body so my knees are facing toward him. He pulls me closer, but not into his lap or anything. “I miss you more than anyone else in the world.”

I miss you all the time. I miss you right now. I miss you more than I’ll ever be able to say. I want to live inside your body so I’ll never have to leave you again. I want a home inside your heart. I want you forever. Do you miss me like I miss you?

“Good,” Neil says, and it makes me shiver. He goes back to petting my head. I feel like whimpering and I almost accidentally do it out loud. My whole body feels warm, especially as he tucks my head down to lay it down on his chest. 

I love when you praise me. I love when I’ve done something good for you. I love when you baby me. I love feeling like I’m your puppy. I love when you talk to me softly. I love when you stare into my eyes. I love when you pet me. I love when you touch me. I love when you hold me. I love when you cherish me. I love when you make me feel precious. I love when you make me feel loved. I love you.

I don’t really have anything to say that isn’t weird or isn’t a confession, so I just sit there and hope he never pulls away. I feel his breathing on top of my head, and his heartbeat is steady, and his hands are like little, individual blessings every time they lift and come back down on my head. I love him so much that it’s foolish, really. Obsessive. I want him to own me. I wish he owned me. I think he does own me. I think I belong to him. I love him so much that I want to sit here forever. I want to sew myself to his side so that I never have to pull away. I wish he’d kiss me. I wish he’d love me forever. I really do love him. I love him so genuinely. I’ve loved him my whole life. I don’t know where he ends and I begin. I don’t want to know, either. Not right now.

If he kissed me right now, I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop. I’d give him whatever he wanted and more. I’d be whatever he wanted if it meant he would kiss me. If he kissed me, I’d lose my mind. God, do I want him to kiss me. I’d let him make love to me on this couch if that’s what he wanted. If only that’s what he wanted. If he kissed me, I’d beg him to take all of me right here. I’d do whatever he wanted. I want him so badly.

“You’re not quitting, are you?” Neil says, jolting me out of my train of thought, which is probably for the best. I look up at him, and he now seems contemplative. I wonder how much time had just passed between now and when he had last spoken to me. Hopefully not too long. 

“Quitting what?” I say, and I’m worried he’s asking me about the cigarettes. To which I’ll have to say no, I’m sorry. 

“Music. People think you’re quitting.” Neil explains.

“What?” I say, alarmed, and I lift myself off of him and sit back on my knees. “People really think that?”

“I guess it’s silly, sorry.” Neil shrugs, and he seems embarrassed now. 

“No, no, it’s not dumb,” I say, especially because I had seriously actually considered it. But I didn’t know the general public had, too. I hadn’t said that I was considering it to anyone. “Why do they think that?”

“Your hiatus,” Neil says. “They just think you’ve quit because you.. I mean, you completely disappeared. To be fair.”

“Oh,” I say, taking a second to think about it. I haven’t been on the internet at all, and my family sure as hell isn’t telling me what’s going on. I’ve also completely ignored all the texts from Valentina and the rest of my friends. I mean, people go on hiatuses all the time without even saying they’re on one. Chappell Roan hasn’t done a performance for a while. I don’t think Sabrina has, either. There’s many people who haven’t. “I guess I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“You didn’t?” Neil questions. “It seems like a big deal to me.”

“Is that because you, like, know me, though? I mean, I thought it would maybe matter to a few people I know when I went off the grid, but I didn’t think other people would notice.” I explain, bringing my thumbnail up to chew on.

“You’re pretty chronically online typically,” Neil says. “I mean, people know when you’re gone. Like when you .. got into the other accident a few months ago.”

“But I haven’t been super active for a while,” I say, and then I tensely add, “.. because of the first accident.”

“I really wish you’d be more careful,” Neil says, reaching down to pick at a loose thread on the couch. “If not for me or for yourself, for your career.”

The only person I do anything for anymore is you. I’d do anything for you. You’re all I have left. You’re the only one I have.

“I didn’t think people would think I was quitting,” I shrug, and suddenly I feel guilty. This just feels like another thing I’ve fucked up, another thing I’ve done wrong. It’s not like the world needs another artist they love on hiatus, with Manon and everyone else. “I thought, like, when I didn’t show up to festivals and stuff and had to cancel, they’d assume it was for health reasons. Did… did Valentina not put out a statement?” My heart drops immediately. “Fuck— not that you’d know, just— oh, God, I really should have told her.”

“She did.” Neil affirms, putting me at ease. “There were statements out about it. That part’s fine.”

“Okay,” I sigh, rubbing my palms together. “That’s good.”

“Yup.” Neil says, and he tilts his head, green eyes glancing the other way. He pushes his glasses up the slope of his freckled nose. “So, you’re not quitting..?”

I unfortunately have to think about it. 

Honestly, I don’t think I can quit anymore. I’ve been so stupidly miserable this past month that it seemed plausible, but now that I’ve got a glimpse to the other side of that pain (or— just a glimpse at Neil again, I guess), that it seems like a foolish thing to even consider. I couldn’t quit. I didn’t have anything else. All I had was my name. My Youtube channel, my music. I wasn’t good at anything else, and I was hardly good at what I did do. I was a failure in all other respects. There was no other option for me other than my current career.

Plus, honestly, I loved performing. I mean, I had always loved attention. I was born with the need to die just to get people’s eyes on me. I’d do anything for the attention and the fame, and so of course I love it, but it’s more than that. Even more than I enjoyed Youtube and stuff— I love singing. I love dancing. I love writing music. These were the three things I would do my entire childhood in the privacy of my bedroom, hidden from the rest of the world, my secret hobby that only I knew about. It’s become a public thing now. My passion is no longer something to be ashamed of or hide because it’s girlish or wimpy or stupid or gay. I’m celebrated now for doing something I love. I can’t imagine my life without performing in it now. I don’t think I’d ever be whole again if I quit. Not that I’m whole now… but I’d be severing another huge chunk of me off. I’d be nothing.

“I’m not quitting.” I confirm. I see a look of relief pass over him which confuses me. “I don’t think I could ever quit. I’ve just been having a hard time.”

“That’s.. okay. Thank God,” Neil laughs, and that just confuses me more. 

“Were you worried about that?” I ask him genuinely.

“What do you mean?” They respond, stopping and furrowing their eyebrows. 

“I just never thought you really cared about any of this stuff,” I shrug, trying to seem casual about the words I’m saying. Really, I always thought that he sort of loathed my career and my fame. I was under the impression that it vexed all the people who loved me and weren’t a part of that world.

“Why would you think that?” He says, his eyebrows lifting from their pinched position to a new one of surprise. “Did I do something to make you think that?”

Yes. “No,” I say. “No, I just… Assume you all don’t really care.”

“Who?” Neil questions.

“You. Kaia, Chandrai, ummm.. I mean, you know. Everybody who lives here at home.” When I say it, it feels dumb. I feel like I’ve accidentally just admitted a deep insecurity to him. I’m pretty sure I have.

“That’s not true,” Neil protests. “That’s absolutely not true at all.”

“Oh,” I say awkwardly. “Well.”

“How can you think I don’t care?” He says, and it comes out very accusatory so I shrink back. He frowns, covering his mouth for a second. “Sorry. Of course I care. We all care. I wasn’t lying when I said I think you’re doing something really amazing.”

“Thank you,” I say, again awkwardly. “I guess I just thought no one really paid attention.”

“I do,” Neil says. “I care so much. I.. I watch everything you do, honestly.”

“… You do?” I say, and it’s my turn again to be extremely shocked.

“Sorry!” He blurts instantly.

“What? Why would you be sorry?” I respond.

“Just, I don’t know, I thought that was weird. Or, I thought you would think it was weird and I don’t want to be weird. Not that I’m doing it in a weird way. Or… anything.” He lifts his hand to scratch the back of his neck and then clears his throat. “I just like to see what you’re up to. I like to know how you’re doing.”

“That means a lot to me, man.” I say, because I’m emotional again all of a sudden, and it seems like all I ever am is a stupid emotional mess. “Like, really. I actually—”

“I love your music!” Neil blurts out again, cutting me off. I stop, immediately shutting my mouth, and I watch him buffer for a second before he regains his nerve and continues. “I love watching you perform. I wanna support everything you do. I love seeing you get to talk about what you do in interviews and I love watching you do live performances and, well, of course you already know I listen to your music all the time, and have your merch and your CDs and your vinyls, and— uhm, I love your Youtube and Tiktok stuff, too, and sometimes I watch your streams. I— fuck. Haha, uhm. I guess I just love …” He trails off. I think he might be blushing but it’s hard to tell with the lighting. “… Everything that you do. Sorry.”

I don’t know what to say at all. It all comes to me as a shock. I knew he supported me, I knew he listened to my music and bought my stuff, I knew he had been to my shows, of course I knew all of that— but I had thought it was out of obligation. Or maybe not obligation exactly, just like, he’s my best friend. Of course he’s going to do all those things. But I wasn’t under the impression that he actually liked my stuff. I didn’t think it was his kinda thing, the big and flashy and sexy popstar. He listened to 80s and 90s indie soft rock. Not exactly the same as me.

“I wish I knew what to say,” is my dumb and meaningless response, but it’s true. I’m speechless. “I can’t even… I can’t even, like, tell you how much that means to me, Neil.”

“You mean a lot to me.” is Neil’s response. I feel like he’s hit me in the face, but in a good way. I don’t know how to explain.

“You mean a lot to me.” I say, trying to emphasize it as much as I can. “You know that, right?”

“I do.” Neil nods. “But thank you for reminding me.”

“And thank you for reminding me,” I say. “And for telling me that you like my stuff. Thank you for caring about what I do. Thank you for everything.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that…” Neil shrugs, nervously rubbing his chin. I don’t know why he’s nervous. 

“I do,” I say. “You don’t have to care, but you do. That means so much to me.”

“We all care,” Neil says. “A lot. That I know is true.”

“I’m talking about you, though,” I say, and I lean forward on my knees, putting my hands on his legs. His breath hitches as I get close to him, leaning into his space. I want to make my point. I want him to listen to me. I lower my voice. “Your opinion matters most to me, Neil.”

“Okay,” Neil whispers, and something stupid and delusional in me thinks he’s looking at my lips. I lean an inch farther forward, and his eyes stay there. I feel his breath on my face again, coming from his parted lips. My heart starts to race. I feel dizzy just at the idea that maybe, just maybe, his eyes are trained on my mouth— and, more than that, he’s not just looking there because he’s awkward, but because he wants me. It spurs me to keep going.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” I say, and I try to make it sensual, or something slow and saccharine and thick like honey, and I don’t know if it works, but I do see him close his lips to swallow and then part them again. His hands are stuck by his sides and don’t come up to touch me. I rub my thumb into the fabric covering the skin of his lower thighs and he makes a small noise. I want to wrap my hand around that noise and keep it inside me. Hold it in me forever. 

How many times have I tried to make a move on him on this couch? A million. I think my basement is romantic. I think the moody lighting is nice. It’s private and it’s nice and, God, all I’ve ever wanted is him. I’ve spent my entire life trying to get him to want me. I’ve spent my entire life coming onto him and making myself look so fucking stupid. Desperate. Pathetic. He’s never once been receptive to it, and yet I keep trying like a freak. Not once has he ever flirted back with me. Not once has he taken my flirting and seemed pleased with it. I must look like an awful fucking creep. A freak. God, I want him. I’ve wanted him forever. But if there’s anything I’ve learned, lately, it’s that I can’t always get what I want, no matter how much I want it. I’ve learned that my wanting doesn’t amount to anything. It doesn’t matter how much time I spend begging for it, it doesn’t matter how much I pray for it, it doesn’t matter how much I cry for it, doesn’t matter how much I bleed for it. If something’s not gonna happen, it’s not gonna happen. 

Have I spent my life waiting for him? Yes. 20 years I’ve waited. Every birthday candle. Every 11:11. Every star, every dandelion, every eyelash, every coin in a fountain. Nearly every prayer. I’ve spent my entire life on my knees with my hands folded and it hasn’t amounted to anything. Dear God, please let him love me. Dear God, please let him love me, even if it’s only a little bit. God, please let him give me a chance. God, if he could just give me a chance, I would show him. Please, God, let me show him. God, please give me the opportunity to try. Dear God, why doesn’t he love me? Dear God, what’s wrong with me? Dear God, what is so inherently wrong with me that I can’t make him love me? Dear God, why would you do this to me?

My throat starts to tense and burn and feel like hell. I sit back, away from him. I see him visibly relax. I must have been making him uncomfortable like I always do. I turn away, covering my mouth with my fist in hopes it’ll keep my tears in. How many times have I cried today? How many times have I cried this week? This month? This year? It seems like my life is a neverending battle of tears nowadays. I think I’m shaking, so I try to relax, but it doesn’t work. The basement is colder than the main floor of the house. I feel that black static, that black fog, that black hole in my chest. It’s very familiar. It is black and venomous and ties itself around my heart and my lungs and my ribcage. It is physically painful. I wince and can’t help but put my hand over my chest, trying to soothe the pain. My efforts are fruitless. I hurt and I hurt and I hurt, and I ache and I ache and I ache, and God, I wish I didn’t love him. I wish I didn’t have to love him. I don’t think I can do this anymore. It hurts so much that I just want to die.

“You’re my best friend, above everyone else,” I say, and I know there’s something awful in my tone. Sometimes I think I’m evil. I think I’m a monster. He deserves better than me and I know it. I wish I never met him. I’m evil and I have to cover my mouth to hide my teeth from him. I don’t want to sink my teeth into him anymore. “That’s what I’m saying.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t bear to look at him, and I really do think I should die. I feel the pain in the scars on my stomach. I imagine that they’re glowing bright red, pulsing. I want to rub my fingers over them to calm them, but I can’t in front of him. I really do think I should die. I really do want to die. He’s not saying anything, and I think he’s probably thinking that I should die, too. I wish he would kill me himself.

“Carlos.” Neil suddenly says, and his voice is very urgent, demanding, almost in panic. His hand grabs my shirt in his fist and pulls me toward him, making me look at him again, and I yelp in surprise. His expression startles me. It’s something I’ve never seen before. I don’t even know how to explain it other than urgent. His eyebrows are tilted up and his eyes are full of emotion, and he leans forward, and I don’t know what he’s trying to do. His eyes search my face, and his mouth moves and attempts to form words, and he seems frenzied almost. But he doesn’t say anything. I think he’s trying to, but he doesn’t seem to be able to figure it out.

“What?” I say, and my voice is scared and fearful. His hand grips the collar of my shirt, and our faces aren’t that far apart, and he’s just staring at me, staring at me, and I don’t know what’s happening. I feel ill. 

“I—“ He says, and then he doesn’t finish, and I think he looks at my lips again. “I—“ He starts again, and then again doesn’t finish, and just shakes his head. He’s looking at me like— like— I don’t know. God, I don’t know. But I think he thinks I should know. He shakes me gently by the collar of my shirt, and I just stare at him like he’s staring at me. He makes a noise of frustration. “I— fuck!” 

“… What is it?” I say, as softly and gently as I can, observing his odd behavior as critically as I can manage. He’s frowning now, and he looks desperate, and his mouth is just open, and he’s just looking up at me and he’s beautiful and he looks like he’s hurting. God, for a moment, I think he’s trying to tell me that he’s in love with me. I shiver, and goosebumps spread all over my skin, and butterflies are set loose from my stomach to throughout my whole body. I feel nauseous. Is he trying to tell me he loves me? 

“Carlos,” he breathes, or maybe he gasps, or maybe he sighs, I don’t know. He breathes my name like it’s a prayer. He says so much in just saying my name. He sounds exasperated but not in a bad way. He sounds defeated. He drops his head to press his forehead against my chest. Both of his hands now squeeze the fabric of my shirt into his fists. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t think this could possibly be real— but my hopes always get me, and they shoot through the ceiling, and for a moment I really think he’s going to confess to me. For just a second, I’m entirely convinced that everything I ever wanted was about to be right in front of me. But that’s foolish. Delusional. He sighs and slides his hands down my torso, letting go of my shirt, before sitting back. He leans against the pillow on the couch, looking at his lap. I can’t read his expression at all except the same defeat in his tone. “… Have you written anything? While you’ve been here.”

It takes me a minute to be able to respond to him. The pain is so strong that I can’t speak. I run a shaking hand through my dirty hair and try to breathe. I try to let it go. I try not to cry about the fact that him loving me will only ever be in my imagination. I try to choke it all down. There’s a black hole in my chest and it takes everything I have. I don’t think I’ll ever stop hurting. I don’t think there’s anything that can fix me. I think I’m broken. I think I want him forever despite it all.

“I have,” I say, and that’s the truth. I’ve written a lot. But nothing anyone can ever hear. Nothing I can share. Especially not with him. “Nothing good, though.”

“I’m sure it’s good,” he says, and he seems to have already recovered from whatever had just happened, and so I force myself to look like I’ve recovered, too. I force myself to look unbothered like he is. 

How can he not care? How can he not feel the way I do? How can I love him so much, and how can he not feel the same? How does he not care? Why isn’t he bothered? Why am I so fucked up?

“It’s not.” I say, and it’s a bit too firm. I don’t want to take my emotion out on him. I can’t take my hurt out on him. I force a smile. “Sorry, I write a lot of dumb shit, haha. If it’s any good, you’ll see it on my next album.”

“That’s fair,” Neil says, and he rubs his hands together. He looks up at me. “I just kind of wanted you to play something for me. It doesn’t have to be good. I miss seeing you play. Hearing you sing.”

“Youtube,” I joke.

“It’s not the same…” Neil shakes his head. “You haven’t sang to me, in front of me in a long time. I miss it.” He pauses, chews on his cheek. “Not that I’m trying to force you to do that or anything. You obviously don’t need to play me something, especially if the songs aren’t ready.”

“I can’t play you something I’ve written recently, I’m sorry. But I can play you a different song.” I say. “If that’s fine?”

“Yes!” Neil’s eyes light up. He smiles. “Yes, please, if that’s okay. Any song. However. Please.”

“You really like my music that much, huh?” I say, and I try to make it sound like a joke, but I think the earnestness comes out very strongly. I guess it doesn’t matter if it does. 

“I really do,” Neil nods. “I wish… I could make you understand.” He teeters a bit. Looks away and then looks back. “I wish I had the words to tell you, Carlos. I really.. really wish.”

“Okay,” I breathe, and I have to remind myself that no, he’s not trying to say something else to me. He’s not trying to say that he wishes he had the words to tell me he loved me under the disguise of talking about my music. He’s just talking about my music. “Thanks. Thank you. Uhm— what do you want to hear?”

“Whatever you want to do is fine,” Neil says. “I enjoy all of your music.”

“I want to do what you want.” I urge, dipping my head towards him in emphasis. “What’s your favorite song? I’ll play it.” I realize once I’ve said it that I don’t know the answer. I’ve always been too scared to ask him what his favorite song of mine was. Too scared that he wouldn’t have an answer.

“Stupid Song for sure,” Neil says timidly. “Uhm, you don’t have to play that one if you don’t want to. I know you say in interviews that it’s hard for you to sing. But that’s my favorite, if you were curious.”

My heart stops, plain and simple.

Stupid Song. It’s almost comical that he says that. Funny in all sorts of ways. It makes my heart jump, like he’s just caught me doing something bad, but also with giddiness. His favorite song of mine is a love song I’ve written about him. Not only that, but one of my favorite ones about him. The first love song about him I ever released. The song that I, easily, felt like encapsulated how it felt to love him. He loves the song I wrote for him when I was 16. He loves my love for him. I don’t know how to explain what hearing that does to me. I think I’m losing air.

“That one?” I ask, because I almost can’t believe it. I thought he’d like different ones. Something lighter, something more alternative, maybe. No— he loves perhaps one of my favorite songs I’ve ever written, one written entirely by me and no one else, one that was once just word vomit about how much I loved him. I feel woozy. I love him, I love him, I love him. “Really?”

“Yes,” Neil says, and I think he’s blushing in embarrassment. “What, do you not like that one?”

“No! I mean— no, more like the opposite, actually.” I say, waving my palms around defensively. “That’s one of my favorites. I was just surprised that you like that one.”

“I think it’s beautiful in a way I’m not equipped to describe,” Neil says, very simply and yet entirely and wholly meaningful. I melt. I swoon.

“Really?” I say, and I sound like a foolish, airy schoolgirl, but I can’t help it. I can’t believe he loves that song. I can’t believe his favorite song of mine is a love song about him. My most sappy, romantic, lovesick song. 

“What, you don’t think so?” Neil asks, and he starts to chew on his lip. I think he’s just so handsome. Everything he does is so pretty. He’s so handsome when he’s nervous. He’s gorgeous all the time. 

“I just… it’s different hearing it from you.” I shrug, and I want to swing my feet and giggle and jump in circles and dance and scream and bash my head into a wall. “I can’t believe that one’s your favorite. I can’t believe you think it’s beautiful.”

“You have a way with words.” Neil smiles. “That song makes me feel. I think that’s the best way I can describe it. Sorry, I’m not great at describing… things.”

I’m beaming and I can’t help it, can’t stop. There are fireworks exploding with every beat of my heart, sizzling and cracking and driving me insane. My fingers are tingling and I feel woozy and dizzy and sick. In the best way. I let out a tiny squeal, which makes him smile, too. “My song makes you feel! I wrote that one, you know.”

“I know,” Neil says, and he then looks away. His smile dwindles a bit and I don’t know why. 

“What’s your favorite line?” I say before I can stop myself. “Fuck— sorry, that’s annoying. Not to put you on the spot.”

“That’s not a-annoying!” Neil says, and he stutters over the word, and it’s the cutest and sweetest and most adorable thing in the world, and there’s still an aching black pain in my chest, but I’m so giddy with love for him that I can almost pretend I don’t feel it. God, I love him. I love him. “Uhm— this is gonna sound like an excuse, but I honestly love them all. I mean that seriously. I know all the words and I love every single one.”

He’s going to make me cum. No, I’m kidding. Well. I mean…

“That’s fine,” I say, waving my hand. “You don’t have to pick one. The fact that you know all the words means so much to me. I didn’t know you knew all the words to any of them.”

“I think I know all the words to most of them.” Neil says. “Wow. I’m sorry, Carlos. I should be more clear about this stuff.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” I say awkwardly.

“No, I should be. I should tell you how I feel more. I need to tell you how I feel more often. Otherwise, how would you know?” He says, and there’s a passion in his voice that makes me breathless. “Stupid Song is so poetic. It really is. I remember I had a hard time believing you wrote it when I first heard it, because I didn’t know you could write like that. I didn’t know you were a poet. But you are. I’m glad you did a little bit more of that on your second album, because it’s really great when you do. But what I’m— what I’m trying to say, uh, is that it’s hard to pick because every line is so beautiful and meaningful. But I think my favorite is ‘if there’s a God, then he’s the bond that’s between us two’. That’s, that’s so— that’s out of this world. I think I gasped when I heard that the first time. It just—“ He stops, and he brings his hands up and holds them to his chest. He makes a small motion with them, and then spreads his fingers to clutch his chest, holding the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. I let out a shaky breath. “It just makes me feel. Do you understand? Does that make any sense?”

I understand. I really, really do. 

“I wish I could feel it how you feel it,” I say before I can really think about what saying that to him means. “I wish I could—“ and I cut myself off, realizing the oddness of my thoughts. I wish I could reach my hands into your body and take your feelings into my hands. I wish I could wash my skin with them. I wish I could take them and bring them into the atmosphere. I wish I could live inside your emotions. I wish I could become them. I wish I knew what it felt like to be you. I laugh in joyful and quiet disbelief. “I understand.”

“I’m glad,” Neil says, and we stare at each other for who knows how long. I don’t know how long. I don’t care how long. I hope we sit like this forever. I want him forever. 

“.. Do you still want me to play it?” I whisper into the space between us. I watch the words float around and then fall into him. I watch the light reflect in his eyes. I start to count the freckles on his face. I wish I could sit and kiss every one.

“Yes, please.” They respond. “I would really like that.”

“Okay,” I say, and then I stand and go grab the old guitar I keep in the basement, the one I’ve been using to write songs while I’m here. I come back over to him and settle on the floor in front of the couch, leaning my back against the bottom of it. Neil comes down to sit next to me, giving me enough space to wield the guitar. “Just a warning, it’s gonna be a bit rough. It’s meant to be played on the piano. Or, it is now.”

“You originally wrote it on the guitar, right?” Neil asks. 

“Yeah, but it changed when we produced it.” I confirm.

“Well, then this is just the original version.” Neil smiles. “Though you should really learn to play the piano someday.”

“Probably,” I chuckle. “Consider this an exclusive acoustic edition. Just for you.” I crack my knuckles and get ready to play, but I’m suddenly filled with nerves. I realize how intimate it is to play my little guitar for him in the quiet of the basement when he’s right in front of me. What if I fuck up? What if I sound like shit? My stomach knots into itself. “Uhh, I haven’t, like, sang in a while. My voice might be a little rough.”

“That’s okay,” Neil says reassuringly. “I’m not here to critique you. I just want to hear you sing my favorite song.”

“Okay,” I say, still nervous. “But if, uhm, my voice cracks, just ignore it.”

“Okay,” Neil says.

“Pinky promise?” I ask.

“Pinky promise.” Neil says, and when he smiles I see the beautiful gap between his teeth.

“Okay,” I say, and I take a deep breath and steady myself, ground myself into the floor beneath me, and then I play the song for him. The words are so intimate that it almost feels embarrassing to sing it right in front of him, to nobody but him— but I don’t often get the opportunity to sing directly to him. It’s the kind of thing I fantasize about all the time, the silly stuff that would occupy my bored mind in classrooms and my thoughts as I fall asleep. So I just throw caution to the wind and let myself sing the words directly to him. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the opportunity again to sing this song to him directly, and so I use it as my own means of a confession; I cannot directly confess to him either, and so I’ll do it under the guise of this song that was written about how badly and desperately I want him. If that’s all I can do, I’ll do it. Consider it an attempt at removing a lifelong weight from my shoulders. 

When I sing his favorite line, I finally get the courage to look up at him and we share a giddy smile. I feel so nervous that I might explode, but my skin is also sizzling with the golden sparks that are injected straight into the lyrics and music of this song. When I picture Stupid Song, I picture golden sparks and fireworks, I picture shimmering sparkles, I picture summer evenings and sunshowers and smiling until my face hurts. I picture everything that he makes me feel. I picture all the love in the world, in the universe, all the love my body and my mind and my heart can possibly hold. And I want him so, so bad— and when I sing that line, I sing it directly to him, I say it all directly to him. I want you so bad. Nobody’s ever wanted somebody more. I’m going crazy, I’m going mad, and you should feel how I feel when someone says your name. And throughout it all, he’s smiling at me, he’s really smiling, and I think for a moment he might love me. He’s looking at me like he could love me, and I’m on top of the world.

When I’m done, I take in a breath I desperately need, and gently lay my guitar in my lap. He claps for me softly and I smile. “How was that?” I ask, and I know I’m nervous, and I know he knows I’m nervous, and maybe it’s okay.

“Amazing,” Neil says honestly. “Amazing. That was great. Thank you.”

“Thank you.” I say, bashfully looking up at him through my lashes. He smiles, wobbily and gooey, just like how I feel inside. 

“You have such a great voice.” Neil remarks. “Have I ever told you that? I love the sound of it. It’s the best I’ve ever heard.”

“Okay, now you’re just glazing me.” I snicker, flipping my hair out of my face with a jerk of my head.

“No, I mean that!” Neil says. “You can ask Kaia. I tell her that all the time.”

A bouquet of roses bursts in my chest. The petals fall and dance throughout my organs and land in the butterfly field in my stomach. I think I’m blushing again, red hot. “…Thanks.”

“I really love that song.” Neil smiles. He leans back on his palms to sit more casually. He looks up at the ceiling, biting his lip. I watch him swallow, and then he asks, “Is that about, um, Serena?”

I stop.

What the fuck was his problem?

What is his obsession with Serena? It seems that everything with him lately is all Serena, Serena, Serena. Or maybe that’s how it is with me, and I’m projecting that onto him. Still— what right did he have to ask me who my song was about? What right did he have to keep bringing up my ex-girlfriend all the time? Calling her an ex-girlfriend felt so demeaning and disgusting. It felt like it was taking the whole situation and writing it off as something stupid. But still. What business did he have? You didn’t ask artists who their songs were about. People know that. 

Serena. Serena, Serena, Serena. I have to quickly turn away and cover my mouth, swallow the bile that rises in my throat and threatens to spill out from my lips. I cough and pretend like I’m choking on my spit or something, and not about to vomit all over my lap. Why would I be vomiting over my ex-girlfriend? It’s not like he knows. Even if he did, he wouldn’t understand. No one does. I turn back to him, but my stomach is swimming with hot sickness. I feel woozy still, but not in a good, dreamy way. My head is hurting and there’s a distinct pain behind my eyes. My mouth tastes foul. 

I blink slowly at him, my head swimming, before I answer, “No. I wrote that in high school and then we tweaked it with a producer when it was time to release.”

“You wrote that in high school?” Neil says.

“Yes.” I grumble. I’m suddenly extremely tired. Exhausted. My stomach hurts. I feel ill.

“So then is it about—“ Neil starts and I cut him off with my hand.

“Stop!” I interject. “What the fuck, man?”

“What?” Neil asks, like he’s stupid or something.

“Stop asking me who it’s about.” I say forcefully. “And for your information, I’ve never written a song about that bitch from high school.”

“Right. I’m sorry.” Neil says, and then he looks away and I can see that he’s thinking, that cogs are turning in his head. I want to clock him with my guitar and tell him to stop thinking about it. But I see a realization pass over him, and I don’t technically know what it is, but I think I know. I think that realization is that he knows. He knows that song is about him. He knows I want him. He must be figuring it all out right now, I’m sure of it. I watch him glance at me out of the corner of his eye and then look back away. I almost vomit again and I feel myself start to shake.

“We should go to bed,” I blurt, and I put the guitar on the floor. My fingers fumble over the base and I draw them back quickly, settling them by my side. “I’m really tired.”

“Oh, did you want me to stay over?” Neil says, and he plays with the braid on his shoulder.

Why did I say that? I want to drive my head through the wall. “Uhm, I just thought— you don’t have to. You can go home.”

“I want to,” Neil says, and he pushes himself off the floor to stand. He reaches his hand down for me to take, and I stare at it for a bit too long before taking it and letting him help me up. We just look at each other for a second before he says, “I’m tired, too.”

“Okay, well, you’ll have to carry me to bed, I guess.” I say, and then I regret it so bad that I shut my eyes and pinch my eyebrows together with my fingers in embarrassment. I want to smack myself in the head over and over again and say, stupid, stupid, stupid. Why the fuck did I say that? He definitely thinks I’m a fucking freak. I rub my eyes with my index and my thumb and then mumble, “…Kidding.”

“Haha,” Neil chuckles awkwardly, and he’s probably regretting saying he’ll stay over and regretting coming over in the first place and regretting meeting me at all. He’s probably going to run out in the middle of the night, climb out my window and escape. “I mean, uhm, I could if you need me to.”

“I was kidding,” I say, now so embarrassed it makes me a bit snippy. Was he making fun of me? Trying to torment me? I didn’t appreciate it at all. I walk past him and make my way up the basement stairs. I hear him make a noise and then jog to catch up to me. He shuts the basement lights off behind us. When I walk onto the main floor, I see the only one still awake is Teresa, sitting at the kitchen counter. I soften upon seeing her. “Goodnight, Terry.”

“Oh!” Terry startles, and she looks up at me from where her head had been sitting on the granite. I wonder if she was falling asleep at the counter. It makes me sad to think about. I wonder if she was waiting up for me, to make sure I was okay. She does that. It makes me feel so guilty. She smiles sleepily, and her cheeks round with the smile, and her eyes crinkle at the sides.  “Goodnight, Carlos. Goodnight, Neil. Sleep well, okay? Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Teresa. You, too.” Neil nods, and then I blow her a kiss, and we make our way upstairs to my childhood bedroom.

When we step into my room, I realize how much of a pig-sty it is. My depression mess— upon my usual bedroom clutter and mess, you add on the mental illness to it. It’s not pretty. In fact, it’s disgusting, and I’m ashamed of it.

“Sorry,” I say shamefully. “Maybe we can sleep in the basement.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Neil says. “You know I’ve never cared about your messy room.”

Naively I want to say, really? But I think I’m past letting myself coo at him like I want to. I sigh and kick some clothes around. “I didn’t really have time to tidy up. I can tidy up right now if you want me to.”

“Carlos,” Neil says softly. His rough fingers graze my bony arm. “It’s really okay.”

“Okay,” I breathe. “If you’re sure.”

“Mhm,” Neil smiles, and then he shuts the door behind us. He walks over and turns my nightstand lamp on, and then goes to sit on the one patch of carpet that I had cleared of clothes so I could sit there. I like how at-home he feels in my own space. I like that he’s comfortable here. I want these spaces to feel like his, too, like we’re married and everything in the world is ours. Even when I’m defeated, I want him forever. 

I walk over and sit next to him. “This is where I stretch.”

“Stretch?” Neil questions.

“Yeah,” I say. “The doctor said I should stretch before bed to relax myself and help me sleep better.”

“Oh. Like physical therapy?” Neil asks. I almost want to laugh, in a sardonic way.

“Sure,” I say, but the real answer is, no, because I’m fucking crazy and don’t sleep. 

“You should probably stretch, then.” Neil says. “I don’t want to interrupt your sleep routine.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” I shake my head, trying to dismiss it because it seems really awkward to sit and stretch in front of him. 

“I’ll do it with you if you want.” Neil says. “I’m a little tense. I’ve been helping my dad with his work while I’ve been home.”

“That’s how you get so strong, then?” I smile. His father was a carpenter. Neil had always loved to help him out with his work when he could. It had, at the very least, given him very sturdy and strong arms over the years. I’d always wondered if the muscle extended beyond that, to his chest and his abdomen and his back, but I hadn’t seen him shirtless since we were very young to know. It was something I thought about a lot, actually. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m super strong,” Neil shrugs, always humble. 

“You can literally lift me onto your shoulder,” I say. “Soooo.”

“Well, okay,” Neil laughs. “You’re not as heavy as you think you are.”

“Oh, so you’re calling me weak, okay. That’s fine.” I kid. I wondered what he would say if I told him I’d lost like 30 pounds in a few months. It makes me sick to think about how ill I am. 

“No, no, I’m not! You’re quite the opposite, actually. You’re so, like, muscly it’s kind of unreal,” Neil says, and he reaches over and grabs my upper arm, squeezing. I freeze like a prey animal. I wonder if I could get away with playing dead. I already look dead, so it wouldn’t be very hard. I see his smile drop to a frown once it really, really hits him how skinny I am. Sometimes it’s funny that Neil can’t control his face at all. Otherwise, it’s devastating. I pull my arm away from him, crossing it over my chest with the other one, trying to hide. I see his lip quiver. “Uh, and I don’t work out at all, so. You know. So, what do you usually do to stretch?”

“You can just follow my lead, I think,” I say, desperate to move on.

“That’s good with me.” Neil says, and he seems desperately to move on, too. I wonder if I make him sick. I know I do.

I guide him through my stretching routine. It’s just a few things to get me loose. I cut out all the stretches that are too awkward to do in front of him— I don’t think I’m in the place to try and seduce him anymore, and sticking my ass up in downward dog or arching my back in the cat pose would just be stupid, now. In fact, it was always stupid. He doesn’t want me, and so it was all just stupid and I’ve always been making a fool out of myself. I guess he’s just too good of a person to say anything to me to get me to stop. He’s way too good for me. I’ll never be good enough for him. I’ll never deserve him as my best friend. But it’s.. fine.

When we’re done, I sit up and I sigh. My body feels relaxed but my brain doesn’t at all. I look over at him, and I find him looking at my body instead of my face, looking it up and down, surveying it. I tug my shirt down immediately, and my heart startles with the idea that he might have seen how horrible I looked under this t-shirt, or worse— the scars on my abdomen. Once I do that, his eyes dart to look into mine. I clear my throat. “That’s all. Just a little bit.”

“That was very relaxing.” Neil says. “I might start doing that before I go to bed, too.”

“Well, that’s what they say about yoga, right?” I try to joke but it comes off flat. When did we get so awkward? I ache and long for the days when I could just be around him normally. When we didn’t fight. When I was normal. When I wasn’t such a fucked up freak. I know he longs for it, too. He’s told me so, just not in so many words. I yawn.

“I wish we could talk forever,” Neil says, and to me it feels like it’s out of the blue, but he doesn’t seem to think so. “I wish we never got tired. I think my favorite thing to do is talk to you.”

“Really?” I say, genuinely surprised by the tenderness of his words. I assumed his favorite thing to do would have been bird watching or something. “That’s so sweet.”

“Yeah,” Neil says, and I think he senses my awkwardness, because he shifts and then looks at his lap. Neither of us say anything after, but the silence isn’t our usual comfortable one.

I realize that I’m being an asshole. Today hasn’t been as good as it could have been simply because I’ve been far too stuck in my own head. I feel like I’ve just been upset the whole time, when I could have been spending quality time with the man I love and smiling and laughing and forgetting about everything awful. Sure, he doesn’t love me. But that’s whatever, in the end. I’m almost 27 and I’ve spent my whole life as his best friend and nothing more. I’ve gone through much worse than not dating Neil. He’s my best friend, and he’s so kind to me, and he’s trying so hard to make me smile, trying so hard to keep us together. The least I could do is try back, show him that I mean it when I say I want to be his best friend forever. I do want forever with him— and it doesn’t matter how I get that forever. As long as he’s here with me, I’m happy. I internally slap myself a few times and try and get a hold on my emotions. Neil is here. I love him so much and he’s here, and he wants to spend time with me, and no matter how much I treat him like shit, he hasn’t left. I need to start treating him better.

“Neil,” I sigh, and I crawl towards him a bit. “Can I sit on your lap?”

“Of course you can,” Neil says, though his eyes are a bit wide. He shifts how he’s sitting, crossing his legs pretzel-style, and puts his arms out to beckon me. I crawl into his lap and pull him into a hug, sighing. He wraps his arms around me, and I’m home once again.

“I’m sorry I’m being so difficult today,” I whisper. “And for the past several months.”

“It’s okay.” Neil says. 

I pull him closer toward me. I press our chests and our beating hearts together. I’m so sleepy that I think I might fall asleep like this. I want to talk to him, though, but climbing into his lap put me at so much peace that my eyes start to drag downwards. I can’t help but yawn. He rocks me back and forth a bit, and I think a few hearts escape from the top of my head.

“I forgot to tell you before,” Neil starts. His voice is quiet in the stillness of my room. “I meant to say— I can teach you how to play your song on the piano. I don’t mind.”

“You know it?” I ask, surprised. 

“Yeah, it’s one of the few songs I know.” Neil responds. “I wasn’t lying when I said I liked it.”

I imagine him guiding my hands across the piano in his living room. I sigh blissfully at the thought. I can’t believe he knows my song on the piano. “I would really like that. How about you teach me tomorrow?”

“That sounds good,” Neil smiles. There’s a few beats of silence, and now I think it’s quite comfortable. Comforting, even. “I’ve been getting really into drawing lately,” Neil says, making more conversation. “I’ve been sketching more than I used to.”

Neil liked to sketch nature. I’d always known that. It wasn’t one of his main hobbies, though, at least not before; he used to do it just as a measure of observing his surroundings. I liked the idea of him sitting and drawing, though. I could imagine his focused expression and the movement of his hand as he drew pencil on paper. I smile. “What have you been drawing?”

“Birds, mostly.” Neil responds. “Some trees. I’m not really good at other animals. Or people.”

“I can’t wait to see,” I say truthfully, and then I yawn, unable to help it. I try to cover it up with my hand. 

“You’re so tired,” Neil coos at me, and I can hear the smile in his voice when he says it. It makes me bloom with fondness again. He strokes the top of my head. “We can go to sleep, Carlos. It’s okay.”

“I want to talk to you,” I protest. 

“Tomorrow,” he whispers into my ear, and then he gently moves me off of his lap. I like when he moves me places. I like when he manhandles me, especially when he does it so gently and tenderly and softly. “For now, we can sleep really well, and then we’ll have a bunch of energy to talk all day tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say, and that sounds really good to me because I’m so tired, but I pout anyway. He stares at me with sparkling eyes and I melt, and I melt, and I melt, and I’m nothing more than a pile of goo soaking into my carpet. 

“Do you have anything I could wear as pajamas?” Neil asks, and my heart stutters at the thought of him in my clothes, even though it isn’t anything new. 

“Take your pick,” I joke sleepily, gesturing around me to the clothes on my floor. Neil starts to actually look around for something to wear and I burst out laughing. He smiles goofily and reaches over to cover my mouth with his hands. I stare at him, smiling against his skin, and I hope my gaze doesn’t reveal how much I desperately love him. But I also don’t even care if it does. 

“You’re going to wake up your family,” Neil giggles, and I place my hands over his. He just stares at me, grinning, and I do the same, and I hope we stay like this forever. My heart thumps in my ears and his hands have callouses on them, and they’re warm and steady and practically the size of my face. He lets out a breath and then says, warm like honey, “… Hi.”

“Hi,” I say, and it hardly comes out more than a gargle of muffled noise because of his hand, but I say it regardless. He lowers his hands but doesn’t move his gaze. I’m smiling so hard my cheeks feel fuzzy. “I’ll get you something from my dresser.”

“Okay,” Neil nods, and I stand up and walk over to my dresser, looking for some clean clothes for him to wear. “Your uh— your butt says ‘pink’, by the way. Did you know?”

“Yes,” I say, chuckling bashfully. “Fuck. Yeah, I forgot.”

“I like them. Uhm, the pants, I mean.” Neil says. I try not to think too hard about that, because I know it doesn’t mean anything.

“Thanks,” I say, and I jut my hip out a bit and do a little pose. “They’re actually Priscilla’s.”

“I could tell.” Neil says cheekily. I respond by throwing a pair of pajama pants and one of my dad’s old fighting tees at him. 

“Will that work?” I say, and he nods, laughing. I love when he laughs.

“I’ll just go change,” He says, standing up with the clothes in hand. He looks at me for a moment, before looking down and shaking his head, still with a smile.

“What?” I question, feeling nervous again.

“Nothing,” he grins. “Give me a second.” 

His hand grazes my lower back as he walks past me, and he softly opens and closes my bedroom door, walking to the bathroom in the hallway to go change. I let out a big sigh I didn’t know I was holding, and I watch the door and wait for him to come back in. He drives me insane. I think in every way— good and bad and all the different places in between. His hands on me plant flowers and shoot sparks, and his gaze melts me to nothing, and his voice makes me buzz with an incoming explosion. He is everything I’ve ever wanted. I wish I could go help him undress; slowly lift his shirt over his head and set it aside, press my lips to his tanned skin, wander my hands around his chest and his belly. I wish I could slip him into my pajama pants and tie the loop together to hold them up, tie them slightly too loose so I can see them hang off his hips. The thought makes me sigh again, and I almost want to walk over to the door and sit down, pressing my cheek against the door and waiting for the second he returns. I’d wait for him forever. 

I decide to try and tidy up my room a bit in the couple minutes he’s changing, and by tidy up I mean mostly just kicking all the clothes around the bed area into a pile and tossing a dirty t-shirt off of the bed sheets and onto the floor. I make my bed as quickly as I can, enough that it doesn’t look so gross and haphazard. 

When he comes back, after about what was probably just two minutes but felt like two hours, he shuts the door quietly and smiles at me. He’s beautiful in my clothes, so beautiful that it makes my heart hurt. The shirt I gave him was baby blue, the color of my wife’s eyes and the color of my daughter’s future. It must have been subconscious. Seeing him in baby blue makes me have to turn my gaze toward the ground. He walks over to me, anyway. 

“Aren’t you going to get ready for bed?” Neil asks me. His voice is still soft— and I’m sure it will be for the rest of the night. Sparks.

“What do you mean?” I ask, cocking my head in confusion. “Are you telling me you want me to go brush my teeth or something?”

“No! Haha, no,” Neil laughs, shaking his head. “I just meant, aren’t you going to take your shirt off?”

“What?!” I yelp, way louder than I should, and I quickly cover my abdomen with my arms, hugging myself tightly with them. Did he know? Of course not— he would never be cruel enough to ask that if he did. Still— I wasn’t going to be showing my stomach anytime soon. Perhaps never to another person ever again. “Why would I do that?!”

“I just mean— I just meant— uh!” Neil says, waving his hands around in panic. “I — I’m not trying to be weird, shoot, I just meant— you usually sleep without a shirt on? I didn’t— sorry.”

“Oh,” I say, and now I feel like an idiot. I’ve just made a big deal over something that’s absolutely nothing at all. I lower my hands, feeling like an ashamed child. “Um, no, I’m good. I’m a little cold.”

“Okay,” Neil nods, and he awkwardly wrings his hands out. He does that a lot. I do, too— I picked the habit up from him when I was young. Mimicry or whatever. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be weird.”

“Not weird at all.” I respond, though I know my tone doesn’t have the reassurance needed to back up my statement. I don’t want him to feel bad about it. I glance over at my bed. “Are you..?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay with you,” he nods, answering my unspoken question on whether or not he was going to join me in my bed or not. My stomach tosses and turns with nerves, even though we always sleep in the same bed nowadays. It’s just been a while since we’ve had a sleepover or anything of the sort.

“Duh,” I smile, and then we awkwardly stare at each other before I break the ice and crawl into bed. He walks over to the other side of the bed and I lift the covers up for us both to get under. We lay next to each other, two grown men cramped for space on my old twin-sized mattress. There’s silence, and we both stare up at the ceiling, twiddling our thumbs and laying like perfectly set dolls.

“I didn’t realize how tired I was until I laid down.” Neil chuckles, and I turn to look over at him. Our faces are so close. He’s so beautiful. I can’t hold his gaze— instead, I’m taking in every feature on his face. I hope he’s doing the same to me, though I know he’s not.

“Yeah,” I laugh, and suddenly I want to stay awake forever. I want to stare at him forever. I never want to sleep again, or move out of this bed. I want to reach over and take his hand, but I’m too scared. I didn’t used to be so scared. I look at his eyes and he’s looking at me. There’s more silence until I reach over and brush a strand of his hair off his face. I swallow my nerves and ignore my stuttering heart and timidly ask, “…Can I take your hair down?”

“If you’d like.” Neil says, and he sits up on his elbows. I try to ignore the way my fingers tremble when I reach over and take his braid in them. I run my fingers over his soft, blonde hair a few times, taking it in, before I take his hairband out and set it on my nightstand. He tilts his head, which allows me to unwind the braid in his hair. His hair is crimped underneath from the shape of the plait, and I shake it out with my fingers. I take my hand and run it through his hair, starting from the top. His hair is so soft. It’s very long, and so beautiful down. Shiny and luscious and dirty blonde. I try not to think about what it reminds me of. This is Neil, and I love Neil’s hair. I can smell his shampoo with it down. Neil smiles at me as I play with his hair. “Happy?”

“Yes,” I smile, and I twirl a strand of his hair between my fingers. “How do you keep it so soft?”

“I don't do anything to it.” Neil shrugs.

“Still, you’d think you’d have split ends,” I chuckle, feeling the end of his hair. His hair is thinner, more wispy. I know his hair is naturally wavy.

“I don’t even really know what that means,” Neil grins. 

“Idiot,” I say, and I say it fondly and tenderly like I’m calling him baby, unable to help myself. I think I see his eyes soften, and he lays back down on his back, lowering himself off his elbows. 

“C’mere,” he says, dreamy and gravelly and so, so gentle. I feel myself swoon. I feel like the room is lopsided and spinning. My insides are liquid gold.

“Okay,” I say, and I’m sure I sound goofy and dumb and so stupidly infatuated with him, and I’m sure he knows, but he’s not running away from me, and so maybe I’m allowed to love him even when he doesn’t love me back. I reach over and turn off my lamp on my nightstand before I lay down on top of him, resting my head just above his heart and wrapping my arms around his torso. I tangle my legs into his. I let out another big sigh, so very relaxed, and he does the same. His arms come to wrap around me.

“That’s much better,” he says. 

“I agree.” I respond. I feel like we fit this way. I was born a puzzle piece made to attach myself to him. I was made for him. My purpose was to accompany him. He strokes circles into my back and I think I’m finally okay. I think everything is going to be okay. I yawn again on his chest, and he strokes my face while I do, and it makes me feel so lovesick that I honestly think I might throw up. I think my entire body is shaking. It feels domestic, like we do this every night. Like we’re married and in love and this is nothing more than our everyday, casual bedtime. God, what I wouldn’t do for that. 

“I don’t like being away from you,” Neil whispers, still stroking my face. I look up at him, my eyes wide. I hear a small breath exhale through his lips. I wonder what I did to make him do that. 

“Me neither,” I whisper back, because now that it’s dark, I feel like we’re stuck in a little bubble again. I’m in this bubble of love and peace and quiet and tenderness with him. I’d never choose to be anywhere else. “I’m dreading when you have to leave tomorrow. I’m going to miss you terribly.”

“I don’t have to,” Neil says.

“Hmm?” I question. His thumb runs flat against my cheek. I shiver.

“We can hang out tomorrow if you want to,” Neil says. “You can come over… see my parents. If you want.”

My heart flutters. I smile. “I want.”

“Cool,” Neil breathes out a chuckle, like he really thought I was going to say no. “Then it’s a— then, it’s decided.”

“It’s decided,” I affirm. I smile and smile and smile, just knowing I’ll be spending the day with him tomorrow. And hopefully tomorrow, I won’t cry and we won’t fight and we can just hang out for real. I trace one of my fingers in shapes across his chest. I write out C + N and draw a heart around it. I blow air out through my nose. “…But then what will I do when I have to leave that evening?”

“I don’t know,” Neil says, a little coy, matching my tone. I didn’t really know he could be coy. I like the sound of it on him. “I guess you’ll just have to stay over at my house.”

“That seems like the only solution,” I nod, pretending to be matter-of-fact. 

“I agree.” Neil nods back. 

“But then there’s the next day, and the next day, and the next…” I say, and I internally cross my fingers that I’m not taking it too far. I cross my fingers and hope he’ll respond well to my words. “Seems like a pretty constant issue.”

“Maybe we should just spend the whole week together.” Neil says, and the words come very quickly, and I assume that he must be as nervous as I am, even if not for the same reasons. “We never really have the opportunity to do that… I’m free if you are.”

“Won’t you get sick of me?” I ask, my question very genuine. 

“I could never be,” Neil says, and the grumble in his whisper tone reeks of a raw honesty. I’m so in love with him I think it’s going to kill me. I think it really is going to kill me one day.

“You’d be sick of anyone else,” I say, and I sound like a pick-me, but I mean it. I don't see how he wouldn’t be sick of me. Everyone else is. I’m very easy to be sick of.

“You’re not everyone else.” Neil says. He cups my face steady now, gently making me look at him. “That’s comparing apples and oranges.”

“Okay,” I say, pliable under his grasp and his words. I’d follow him anywhere. I’d do anything he says without thought. I wish he could lead me around on a leash. I wish I could be his.  “We’ll spend the week together.”

“Only if you want to,” Neil says. “You’re allowed to be sick of me.”

“I want to,” I respond. “I really, really want to.”

“Okay. I’m really glad you said that,” Neil gushes.

“I’m glad you also said that. Or— you know what I mean.” I yawn. He pets my head. I want to keep yawning forever if it means he’ll touch me when I do.

“I wish you could stay forever,” Neil says, and I stop and just look up at him and stare. He looks so vulnerable right now, and he’s staring at me like— like I’m something to be stared at. Like I’m something worthy of his gaze. I might cry. 

“Me, too,” I breathe.

“I wish you weren’t so far all the time,” he says, taking it a step further.

“Me, too,” I repeat.

“I wish it was like it used to be.” Neil says, and there’s a sadness in his voice that I really recognize. My heart hurts.

“Me, too,” I say. “I’m sorry that it’s not.”

“That’s life,” Neil says, and I don’t know what to say to that, so I just keep looking up at him. I yawn, and then I just let myself stare at him. He continues to pet my head, and he’s got an odd, almost constipated look on his face.

“What is it?” I say, confused on why he’s looking at me like that.

“You just—“ He starts and then stops. His hand comes down to trace my furrowed eyebrows. His thumb grazes my pouting bottom lip. “You look like a puppy right now. If that makes sense. It’s really… sweet.”

My heart starts to race and I feel myself blush. I think I’m going to explode into a million pieces. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” Neil says. “That was weird.”

“No,” I rush to whisper back. “I .. I like that. Thanks.”

Neil nods, and I watch him study and stare at my face while my heart continues to race. He brushes some of my hair off of my face. “Your eyes,” he says. “I don’t even think you realize what your eyes do to people.”

I can hardly breathe at all. I choke out, “I guess not.” 

Neil hums. I think he’s about to say something else, but it’s interrupted by my cursed yawning. My yawn, again, must send a wave of fondness through him, because he smiles at me. I want to trace my finger along the gap in his teeth. I want to feel the ridge with my tongue. “… We should sleep.”

“Nooo,” I whine in protest, making him chuckle. 

“We can talk more tomorrow.” He says. “You’re so tired, Carlos.”

He really has no idea how it makes me feel when he says my name. As much as I wanna talk to him all night, he’s right. I’m so tired that it’s getting painful. I haven’t slept properly in so long. My body is full-on shutting down right now— my bed has been a place of fear for so long, and now that I finally feel peaceful and secure in it, it’s crashing at a very quick rate.

“Okay,” I say, surrendering. I reach over and gently pull his glasses off of his face and set them on the nightstand. I rub my fingerpad into the areas on the side of his nose where the glasses prints are. He leans his head up and kisses my cheek before guiding my head down back onto his chest with his hand. I wish I could show him how insane that drives me in ways other than cumming and humping his leg until I cry. 

“Goodnight, Carlos,” He whispers, and he shifts a bit to get more comfortable, moving my body with him, pulling me tighter against him. I relish the feeling of his body under mine. 

“Goodnight, Nodin,” I respond, and he presses his face into the top of my head in response. I shut my eyes and let sleep take over me, nestled into him like I was meant to be there.

For the first time in a long, long time, I don’t dream of anything at all.