I could be in the rec room with the others, but I need quiet. Liam would usually stay with me, talking nonstop like a hamster on a wheel.
I miss him. I don't want to admit that.
I ignore the feeling. Nothing is better than peace and quiet. Definitely beats having a nonstop chatterbox, especially after our fight, when things are so awkward between us.
That's what I tell myself.
It's only Miles and me in the room, and he never talks or bothers me, so it's like he's not there. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was dead. Except I do know better: Miles doesn't get that luxury. They wouldn't let him. They'd bring him back from the dead just to keep torturing him. Ever since he got here, it's been torture. No rec time, no group privileges, just classes, chores, detention, and his room. He's held together by pure spite and whatever genetic thing makes a person survive despite wanting not to. He's strong as fuck, and I feel bad for him on a daily basis. He doesn't deserve what they do to him, no matter what he did to land here.
Tonight, I know he's not doing well. He usually isn't, but he doesn't let anyone see. Tonight, though, his breath is shallow. I think he's been crying. He pretends everything is normal. He'd rather die than be seen crying.
"I didn't see you at dinner," I say. He doesn't answer. Usually doesn't. I usually leave him alone, but tonight I just know. We've known each other long enough.
I reach over and snag a wrapped granola bar off my shelf, toss it onto his chest.
"I'm not hungry," he says.
"Eat anyway. You're not going in the ground before I do. I won't allow it."
He snorts softly. I let myself relax.
"Now are you going to tell me what's wrong, or am I supposed to start guessing?" I ask, sitting on my bed.
Miles doesn't answer right away. The granola bar remains unopened on his chest, but he doesn't throw it back, which is progress. He has this habit of ignoring questions he doesn't want to answer, just letting the silence stretch until the person gives up. Sometimes he turns around and walks away. I find that commendable. I'd love to do the same.
But he says: "Just more days of nothingness. More walls. Nothing ever gets different." He rolls the granola bar over in his palm, then sets it aside.
I watch his hands. They're shaking, just slightly. "I want to die," he whispers, and I know he means it. I'd want that too if I hadn't had a moment of fun in three years, if I were locked here with no end in sight, a routine of hell day after day after day.
I say nothing, waiting. If I interrupt, he won't talk again.
Today must be bad, because he keeps going. "I fantasize about being hospitalized just to get a break. I think about how I could achieve that. Constantly."
Fuck.
I check my watch. Late. Really late. We shouldn't do this. But I say it anyway: "You want to get out for a minute?"
He focuses on me. Before, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "You'll get in trouble."
I shrug. "Come on. You need air."
Miles doesn't move at first. I stand, step toward the door, motion with my chin. "What are they going to do to you if we get caught? You already have constant detention. And I know a place."
That gets a weak smile. He gets out of bed, still looking at me suspiciously. Under normal circumstances, I'd never break rules like this. But my friend needs help, and that's what I do.
We slip out of the room. I keep my steps and posture confident. As a student leader, I have some privileges, but walking around after dark isn't one of them. Rec time is almost over, so we don't have long. But if you look like you belong somewhere, people rarely stop you. Three years here, I know the whole place, even the hidden parts. We cross the dark hall, go upstairs to the last floor, where there's a hatch leading to the roof. I haul myself up, then turn to haul Miles after me. He's tall and strong, almost as much as me.
The world opens up. City lights in the distance, the moon bright and oversized, cold wind. I hear Miles exhale, an uneven noise that could be a laugh or a sob. He folds his arms tight, shoulders hunched. I stand beside him, hands in pockets, pretending this isn't against at least four facility rules and a dozen laws of common sense.
Worth it when he tips his face to the sky and I feel him relax. He never gets in trouble, not to make his sentence worse, so he must be desperate to come here with me. I'm glad he did.
"Better?" I ask.
Miles nods. We stand there for a while, letting the air freeze us.
"Thanks," he mutters.
"I've got you, bro," I say, and put my hand on his shoulder. After this much time, I love him. Him and Jack, more than anything. My best friends. My only friends.
