And Liam.
We sit together, backs pressed against a ventilation unit. The chain-link fence at the perimeter is barely visible. You could almost mistake this for a real campus, not a lock-up. He draws his knees up, arms around them, watching the horizon.
"I can't even remember how long it's been," he says quietly. "I try to count days, but they bleed into each other. Sometimes I wake up and think it's still yesterday or the day before." He digs his fingers into his biceps, hard enough that his knuckles go white. He’s very pale already, but now he’s worse. "I try to remember things will pass, but time doesn't go fast enough. And there's no end in sight. For all I know, I could be here for years and years, or maybe forever. They filed me as a psych case, and that's for life." He says it as the fact it is. "It's different for you," he adds. Not bitter. "You have things to do. I have..." But he doesn't finish.
I want to argue. But he's not wrong.
"I keep thinking," he says, "about what would happen if I just hurt myself. Maybe get sent to the hospital for a few days. Just to be somewhere else."
He's not looking at me. I don't have to hide how much that hits.
"I just fantasize about getting out. Even for a little.” We stay silent. I think he won’t say anything else. He adds: “I bet the hospital has better soup than our cafeteria," he jokes, and that makes me a little relieved for a second.
"You'd be disappointed. Same soup. Maybe even colder."
He smiles.
"You can't count days," I say. "If you do, they'll eat you alive. The only way out is through. You gotta hang in there. There's no shortcut, no way to optimize things, that's why it feels endless. You just gotta endure."
He shrugs. "How am I supposed to do that?"
I search for something that doesn't sound like a guidance counselor script. "Just remember, I know it's hard, but we won't be here forever. Even if you think you will, you won't. Every fucking minute of every fucking day, we're going to make it through, even if it's just to make them mad. They want us dead and gone, wiped from society, but we won't give them the satisfaction. The years are short. Hell, it’s been three years since we met. Feels like yesterday. But I know, the days are so fucking long. We just gotta get through one day after the other."
He nods. Silent. I know he knows that. It's even lame to say, but sometimes it's good to hear it again.
He goes quiet. I think that's the end of it. Then I hear this wet, shuddering gasp. His shoulders are shaking so hard it looks like he's going to come apart. His hands are clutching his own arms, trying to hold himself together. He can't. Full-on crying now.
"Hey," I say, as soft as I can. "It's okay. You're okay. I'm here."
He shakes his head, hard. It's not okay. He knows it, and his body knows it too. I can hear the effort it takes not to make a sound. His breaths are thin and jagged. Every inhale gets smaller, every exhale comes out dry. He can't breathe properly, struggling for air.
I try not to panic with him.
"It's just us. No one else here. You're safe. You hear me?" He doesn't respond, but his chest is heaving, hands clawing at the fabric over his ribs like he's trying to rip his way out for air. I remember the protocol from health class: grounding, breathing, touch, wait it out. But when it's someone you care about, everything in you wants to fix it. I can't. I can't ever fix any fucking thing.
I put my arm around him. Firm. Anchor him to me. He comes easily, something I'd never expect. I start talking, calm and steady: "It's all right, bro. You're having a panic attack. I've had them too. It sucks, I know. You won't stop breathing, Ipromise. Just let your body do what it needs to do. We can stay here as long as you want. No one will come up here, and if they do, I'll handle it. Just ride it out. I'm here. I'm here, bro. You're good."
He shakes and shudders, crying, struggling to breathe. We count together: "Breathe in... one, two, three... out, one, two, three..."
It takes a long time for him to be able to even breathe. I silently pray to a God I don't believe in to make him calm down, because I'm panicking too. I just don't show it.
After what seems like forever, the tension in his arms softens. He slumps against me, sweaty, shivering. I hold him, rubbing circles between his shoulders, counting his inhales, letting him press his forehead to my chest. Snot gets all over my shirt. I don't care. I wish I could hug the pain right out of his lungs. After a long time, ten minutes, twenty, maybe more, his breathing evens out. He doesn't sit up. Just stays, curled inward, pressed against me. I don't say anything. Keep my hand on his back and let him decide when to move.
Eventually, Miles sits up, wipes his face with the heel of his hand. "Sorry." His voice is so hoarse I want to grab water for him, but there's nothing but the sky.
"I told you it's okay. I'm glad you're feeling better." My heart's still throbbing from the adrenaline, but I try to act normal.
"I was... I wanted to... end it. Soon." He whispers it. My eyes start stinging. I won't cry. Not to make things worse, I won’t. But I want to. He's quiet, breathing it out. He stares at the horizon, then says, "Thanks for bringing me up here. I mean it." Calmer now. Controlled.
"Man..." I start, and it fucking sucks to open up. I don't open up. Didn't. Until Liam. "Man, please don't kill yourself. You mean the world to me. I know I don't say it. I know I'm a mess and talking about this shit sucks. But me, and Jack, and even Liam, and Harry… we can't live without you. I know you think wecan, but we can't. I know this alone isn’t a good reason to keep living. But please. I love you, bro."
I mean it. I'm not good at this. Being a friend, being soft. It makes my stomach burn, makes my throat stop working. But for Miles, I try. It sucks how my eyes are stinging with tears. I don’t want him to feel like this. I wish I could fix things for him.
We don't talk for a long time. I wonder if somewhere out there, a family is sitting down for pizza or fighting over the TV. I wonder if anyone's thinking of us.
Maybe Liam is.
The wind blows colder. Miles' teeth start chattering, but he doesn't complain.
