More than I want to admit.
Not because I want to die. Not exactly. But because I don’t want to keep living like this. Like a ghost of someone who used to matter.
I’m tired.
Tired of wondering if I’m enough yet.
Tired of being the boy with hollow eyes and a father who resents the air I breathe.
Tired of carrying love in my chest like it’s a curse I’ll never shake.
I paused. Let the silence close in around me like a coffin. Stared at the words until the letters blurred. But then I saw him — not in my dreams, not like that. Just him. Anthony.
Not as a body. Not as a want. Just the small, quiet ways he existed. The crease between his brows when he’s worried. The way his hands shook when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way his voice got quiet when he talked to me like I’m something fragile and real.
And I could breathe again.
I saw his hands, and I believed—maybe, maybe—someone could hold all my broken pieces and not flinch. I didn’t want the world. I just wanted to belong tosomeone. And I wanted that someone to behim.
I slammed the sketchbook shut before I could rip it to shreds with the fury that lived just under my skin. My reflection caught me in the mirror.
Gaunt, pale, hazel eyes rimmed red from exhaustion and longing. Cheekbones sharp like blades. A mouth I didn’t recognize anymore. My dull golden-brown hair fell in uneven strands across my forehead, lifeless as the rest of me. I looked like something left behind. A body no one claimed. I looked like I hadn’t slept in days. Maybe I hadn’t.
“You’re disgusting,” I whispered to myself.
And part of me believed it. But the smallest most fragile part whispered back:Would he think that? Would he still sit beside me, even like this?
And for a moment—just a moment—I didn’t feel disgusting when I imagined his arms around me. Not as a body. Not as a mistake.
But as a person.
As someone he could carry.
As someone he mightchoose.
Justholdingme. Letting me fall apart and saying, without words, “I’ve got you.” I didn’t know what it meant that the only place I felt safe anymore was in someone else’s arms—even if only in my head.
The sun had climbedhigh in a cloudless sky by the time I dragged myself downstairs, but everything still felt dim. Like the world had been dipped in ash—colors muted, sounds dulled, edges soft and useless.
Even though I hadn’t eaten, my stomach was knotted, a tangled mess of nausea and dread. The back of my tongue still tasted like pencil lead and shame. Like I’d swallowed something poisonous and called it desire.
The kitchen was silent, save for the low hum of the fridge and the soft creak of the old floorboards under my weight. I reached for a glass, fingers trembling.
Then I heard him. “Didn’t think you were up yet,” Anthony said.
I froze. He was in the doorway, barefoot, a chipped mug in his hand. His dark hair was still damp, curling around his temples in that disarming way that made my throat tighten. He looked soft. Kind. Too much.
I turned toward him too quickly. “I—yeah. I’m up. Didn’t sleep much.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “You okay?”
No. Not even close. “Fine.” It came out too fast, too brittle.
He didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way his brow tightened, in the way his hand flexed around the mug. “You’ve been quiet.”
The wordquietfelt like a lie people told themselves so they didn’t have to sayvanishing. I forced a dry laugh. “I’m always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
