Page 110 of We Are Just Us

Kieran knelt and pulled off Rory’s shoes, then his socks. “You need to shower?”

“Probably. But I don’t think I have the energy.”

“Tomorrow then. Get in bed.”

Rory stripped down to his boxers and climbed under the covers, and Kieran pulled the blanket up over him.

“Water,” Kieran said, and went to the kitchen. He filled a glass, put a piece of bread in the toaster, and brought both back to the bedroom.

Rory took a few sips of water when Kieran handed it to him. The toast sat untouched. Kieran set the water on the nightstand. “Get some sleep.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m staying.”

Rory’s eyes opened, meeting Kieran’s. “Okay.”

Kieran sat down on the edge of the bed.

Mabel had already claimed her spot on the floor near Rory’s side, curled up but alert.

Rory reached out, and Kieran took his hand.

“Thank you,” Rory said again, quieter this time.

“Sleep.”

Rory’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing evening out immediately.

Kieran’s fingers intertwined with Rory’s, watching him sleep.

Outside, the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light across the floor. And Kieran realized, sitting there in the quiet, that he didn’t want to leave.

THIRTY-THREE

Honestly? San Diego: The Thing About Walls

By Kieran Doyle

Fair warning. This one’s different. No taco rankings. No beach etiquette violations. Just me, being more honest than I’m comfortable with. Regular programming resumes next week. Probably.

I’ve been thinking about walls lately.

Not the literal kind, though I do share one with my neighbor, and let me tell you, the acoustics in a 1970s duplex leave nothing to the imagination. I can hear my neighbor singing in the shower. Mostly flat on the high notes.

No, I mean the other kind. The invisible ones. The ones we build without realizing we’re doing it, and then wake up one day surrounded by them, wondering why we feel so alone.

I’m an expert wall-builder. I have been my whole life.

I built walls around my sexuality, kept it hidden for years, told myself it was nobody’s business, convinced myself that “private” and “ashamed” were the same thing.

I built walls around my grief—my mom died two years ago, and for a long time I couldn’t even say that sentence without changing the subject immediately after. Like if I kept moving fast enough, the sadness couldn’t catch me.

I built walls around what I wanted, who I wanted, what kind of life I dreamed about when I let myself dream. Easier not to want things. Wanting things means risking not getting them.

Walls don’t protect you. They give you the illusion of safety while slowly cutting off your oxygen.

The truly terrifying thing isn’t letting people in. It’s realizing how much time you wasted keeping them out.