“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? Because you look pale. And you’re cold.” I touched her forehead gently and she smiled weakly at me.

“I’m fine. Really. Just hungry. I’ll eat something when I get inside.”

“Okay…”

She turned, walking up the slope of the driveway, and then her bag fell from her shoulder and she was on her knees, holding her head in one hand, the other fastened tightly to the strap. I walked quickly to her, laughing a little.

“So much for being fine, huh? I’ll come in for a while. Your mom will be home soon.”

They're renovating. Getting ready to move. Not far, she reassures me, but they’re moving. I wonder if that means they’ll be too far away to see if I drive by on my way to work. Sometimes when I speed past, I can see her in the back with the dog, or out front with a Frisbee or a baseball. Sometimes I can catch her skipping rope with her sisters, or teaching them how to throw left handed even though she’s not good at it herself. If they move too far away, I won’t be able to see that anymore, that little sunshine on a rainy day.

“Here, you sit. I’ll scrounge around, okay?”

She nods and sits on the couch, almost immediately putting up her feet and laying down. She covers her eyes with her hand, the purple nail polish chipped and faded. In our classes together, she picks at them incessantly, scratching with her fingers and insisting that tonight she would take it off and put on another color, but she never does. She’ll say she fell asleep or had homework to do or something and then go another night with the purple still on.

Her kitchen is small, but comfortable; a little country. The walls are decorated with floating blue flowers above the sink and everything is painted white. The windows let in enough light for me to be able to muck around and not have to turn on the switch. She had so many leftovers in the refrigerator. She insists that every night her mother makes too much for them and complains about how hard it is to find Tupperware.

“What do you want?” I call out and I can hear her groaning as she gets up. She’s never one for directions and she loves to do things on her own. Sometimes when I’m trying to help her with a homework problem, she’ll hold her hand up and cut me off, insisting that she’s got the answer. Most times, she looks at me defeated and waves me on again. In which case, I begin my little explanation and watch her pencil tip as she writes it down.

“I’ll get it. There’s so much junk in here. I bet half of it is molding.”

She digs around in the fridge and pulls out a container, handing it to me and closing the door. She takes a seat at the table, her fingers disappearing into her cropped red hair. She sighs and closes her eyes. She’s got a way of looking taller than me even though we’re the same height. I think it’s because she’s skinny. That’s my guess at least. Either that or she just has an intimidating demeanor. I always thought I did, but people tend to shy away from her more than they do to me. It’s a sense of accomplishment almost that she talks to me and practically no one else. She’s like a prize I’ve won.

I put some of the spaghetti onto a plate and stick it in the microwave, pressing the buttons. I’ve been here so often, I know almost everything about their house. I don’t even have to knock anymore. If she moves, I’ll have to go through that whole process over again. I want her to stay right where she is. When the thing beeps, I take her food and put it in front of her, smiling a little and sitting across from her at the table.

“You looked fine this morning.”

“This morning I hadn’t given blood.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

“What are you doing today?”

“Dunno. The usual I guess.”

“Eating and a nap?”

“Yeah… no. I can’t anymore. Guess it’s aggravating that I stay in my room all day or something and don’t bother people.”

“Yeah. That sucks.”

We lapse back into silence. We never have much to talk about. We know so much about each other, but still have nothing to put into conversation. It’s frustrating sometimes to look over in the car and see her staring out the window with her hands folded in her lap. Sometimes I wish we could stay in the driveway and talk about something, but we never have anything. For once I just want to go for a walk and talk the whole time, laugh a little.

“You doing better?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just had to eat something. Sorry.”

“No, that’s fine. I didn’t have anything to do.”

“No… I mean, I wasn’t really that sick.”

“I know. If you wanted me to come in with you, you should have just asked.”

“Yeah, but that’s awkward.”

I reach across and grab her hand, wiping away a little spaghetti sauce that had gotten on her cheek somehow, and smile. She smiles back and then starts laughing, squeezing my hand and closing her eyes. I laugh back too, because it is funny, whatever it is that we’re laughing about, and I don’t want to stop. But she opens her eyes and looks at me with this grin and this time I know exactly what she’s saying.

She doesn’t want to leave either. She likes waving to me when I drive by or watching me walk by her house towards home on the weekdays after school. She likes walking to where she works and being able to look towards my house and see the television on and know I’m in there watching it. She likes to know I’m just down the street if she needs me and she likes knowing she's just down the street if I need her. She likes that comfort, that ability to just stop by and say ‘hi’ without having to make up excuses about why we’re there. She likes the random trips to ice cream in the middle of winter, the pity parties on Saturdays when we have nothing better to do, the wandering around the town, or the late night movies. She likes that and she doesn’t want to lose that any more than I do.

I lean across the table and she leans towards me, brushing her lips against mine. I slip off of the chair and wander into her arms, her into mine. We stay like that for a while because it’s safe and comfortable and we don’t have to worry about anything there. I can feel her anxiety as her hands grip my shirt, the way her face turns down into my chest and her lips purse against my chest. I know she wants to cry and tell me these things she has on her heart, but she can’t. I know how that is. And I know she feels it from me too.

Even if she moves away, we wouldn’t move away from each other. A different house couldn’t separate us. One time we joked that nothing on earth could, but thinking of that now I don’t think we were joking.

And she’s crying now, but not because she’s sad, because she’s confused. And I know why. Even if she doesn’t tell me. And that’s why she’ll never leave me. Because I know the most about her, even if she doesn’t say a word. Because I know what she’s like, even if she’s different around everyone else. And I know what’s inside, even if she tries to hide it. I’m her soul mate, and she’s mine, and even as I say goodbye and walk out the door, I’m still in her arms at that kitchen table, telling her everything is going to be okay.