Age 19
He’s gone, and he’s taken a piece of me with him, as he always does.
This loss feels different, though. The space left behind feels cold and empty, full of insecurities and disappointment. One look was all it took for me to know I had hurt him deeply and irreversibly. His eyes were flooded with grief, like he’d lost not only the prospect of a future with his Mom, but also his best friend, too.
He trusted me. He trusted me with his friendship, with his family, and from last night’s conversation, I think he was starting to trust me with his heart, too. I begged him to tell me that I was wrong, simply because I don’t know what to do with the information. I’m not ignorant of the fact that there’s more hidden beneath the surface of our friendship; I’m just afraid of the intensity of my feelings for him.
I’m not gay, I’ve never looked at another guy and thought,yep, totally would.But, on the same token, I can’t say I’ve ever looked at Jules and thought,nope, absolutely not.I’ve feltthe pull of attraction and lust, but what I feel for Jules doesn’t fall into either of those spaces. He’s one on his own, too unique to label, too important to compare. He’s always been everything to me: a friend, a brother, a shoulder to lean on, and a hand to hold. What’s to say he couldn’t be more?Because everything you love dies, Zander.
When he had left, I was three steps behind him and reaching for the handle of the door, when Theresa called out for me to stop. She said he needed to process the information to rationalise it within himself first, before he could make sense of it all. I didn’t like the idea of him being alone and hurting, but she was right. We had both hurt him with our overbearing need to protect him, and now, we have to face the consequences.
Hours rolled by without any word from Jules. With each passing minute, the room seemed to grow smaller and smaller until I eventually took myself upstairs. I open our text thread, close it, then open it again, my thumbs hovering over all the different ways I want to tell him I’m sorry–
Me: Jules, forgive me?
Delete.
Me: Come home, please.
Delete.
Me: Set your pace, Jules. I’ll be right beside youx
I hit send and lie back, alone. This is the first time since I was sixteen that I’ve been left with the darkness. The air feels different, thicker somehow. Shadows crawl along the ceiling from the trees outside, and the uneasy feeling that often plagues me starts to settle into my skin. I know what’s coming; the signs are always the same. I need him with me; he’s the one who gives me a reason to endure it over and over, night after night. I push myself from my bunk and scan the room for something to occupy the space in my mind that calls for self-sabotage. My eyes land on a scrap of black fabric poking out from Jules’ top drawer. He’s with me, even when he isn’t.
I tug the drawer open. The mess that greets me sends feelings of irritation and gratitude carouselling around my brain. He knows of my need for order, so to find this when I can’t find him is comforting, in the most messed-up kind of way. It’s a toxic and unhealthy outlook on the situation, but desperate times call for desperate measures– I’d say rifling through my best friends’ pants is definitely a new all-time low.
I’ve successfully managed to keep the demons at bay by folding seventeen pairs of boxer shorts, pairing twenty-four socks, and pulling the entire bedroom apart trying to find the partner to five rogue ones. My crusade for the last stripey sock has me lying on my front, aimlessly waving my hand around under the bunks. Just as I’m about to give up, my fingers brush against something solid– a box. Gripping it with the tips of my fingers, I manage to wiggle it out. I swipe the dust from the top with the side of my hand–whoops, more mess for me to clean, shame.
Opening the lid steals my breath. Nestled inside the box are two shoes– the left one his, the right one mine. I trace the rubber sole with my finger lightly, like I’m scared of causing further damage to him by extension.
It’s then that the door swings open, and suddenly, it’s easy to breathe again. I don’t say anything for fear of saying thewrongthing. I simply let the comfort of his presence surround me as we stand here in the silence. There’s an undeniable charge running through the air, amplified by the stillness of our bodies. It feels hostile but contained, reminding me of the calm before a storm.
He takes a step forward, his eyes darting to the shoes in the box. Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition or emotion. I match his step.
“Don’t, please,” he says, completely resigned.
I take another step. It’s a dangerous game, but I need him to need me, it’s the only way this works– the only waywework.
Another step. He looks physically pained, his body angled away defensively, and his face pleading for me to stop.
“Zander… Don’t make me do this, please.” He recognises my strategies, even before I do. It’s the bond that runs soul deep, just existing between us on a level that we can’t comprehend– the safety we find in the other’s surrender, the catharsis we find in control, and ultimately, it’s the understanding of the undefinable connection that always pulls us back together.
“Do you want to shout at me?”Step.
“Scream at me?”Step.
“Hit me?”Step.
We’re standing chest to chest now. I’m crowding him, pushing into him with the hope that he will push back.C’mon, Jules. Show me your fight.I implore him with my eyes to let it out, to admonish himself of the anger he’s clinging onto.
“Give it to me, Jules, let me carry it.”
“I don’t need you to,” his response is forced and strained as it passes through the gaps in his clenched teeth. I press my forehead against his, nudging him, baiting him.
“I think you do, Jules. I think you need me to–”
A forceful shove knocks the breath from my lungs as I stumble back a few steps, catching myself on the rail of the bunk.
