I don’t check the apps. I don’t do anything but sit on my bed, back pressed to the wall, and watch the light crawl across my ceiling.
It’s not fixed, not even close. But for the first time since the world broke, I think maybe it can be.
I think maybe we’re allowed to want things, even if we don’t know how to have them yet.
I sleep, and in the dream, we’re on the bench, watching the ferries. He’s there, and so am I, and nothing hurts.
———
By the time I make it home, the city’s lost the sharp white of morning and slipped into that blue-gray soup that means the day is over, at least for people like me.
I trudge up the stairs, backpack digging into my shoulder, the weight of a thousand unreturned texts and a week’s worth of failed Tinder experiments pulling me down with every step.
My phone buzzes, but I don’t even look. Whatever’s out there can wait. Whatever’s waiting in here is more important.
I unlock my door and step inside. The apartment’s colder than I remember, but not in a bad way.
The old radiator’s got that metallic tang, the air heavy with the smell of cheap detergent and something sweet I can’t place.
Maybe it’s the flowers from the neighbors, or maybe it’s just the aftertaste of butter from the piroshki.
I drop my stuff on the table, toe off my sneakers, and go straight to the nightstand.
The book is there, right where I left it, the battered Penguin edition of Borges, the edges softening more every time I pick it up.
I run my thumb along the spine, the crack in the cover, the faint ghost of someone else’s name on the inside page.
I hold it up to my chest and just breathe.
It’s stupid, I know. It’s just a book.
It’s not like Darius wrote me a poem or baked me a cake or even said anything out loud about what it meant.
But the act of giving it, the way he fished it out of the bin, the way he tossed it at me without looking, the way he tried so hard to make it mean nothing, said more than anything he could have actually said.
This is what it’s like to be seen.
I sit on the edge of the bed and flip through the pages, landing on a story at random. The sentences are dense, circular, the kind of thing that makes my brain feel like it’s spiraling down a drain, but I love it.
I love that he remembered. I love that he cared enough to listen, even if I was just running my mouth to fill the silence at the gym.
I read the first paragraph three times and don’t take in a word.
Instead, I close the book and set it on the pillow next to me.
I strip down to my boxers, crawl under the blanket, and drag the book close. I put my hand on the cover, fingers spread, and let myself believe for one second that the world hasn’t ended yet.
That maybe it’s just starting over.
I close my eyes.
I dream of the bench, the water, the sound of his voice saying my name, like it’s the only thing that matters.
And for the first time in months, I sleep without fear.
When I wake, the book is still there, warm under my palm.
I smile.
