8.10.11

He wonders if she understands. If she has picked up on the countless clues he has dropped, trying to let her know without actually having to say it. He wants her to know, needs her to, but something inside him won't allow him to say it. So he invents cryptic metaphors, hiding himself inside them, and hopes both that she discovers him and that she doesn't, the contrasting wants somehow coexisting without canceling each other out or ripping him up violently. Not that there's much left to be ripped up, life has been eating at him for months, and he's not sure how much of him is left.

He sits up in his bed, the pitch black comforting him, letting him forget where and who he is. He is careful not to let himself touch or see anything, and he shoves his one blanket out of reach quickly. He will not let anything bring him back from where his mind has gone.

In the dark, he carefully moves his legs to a diamond shape, much like his little sister's when she stretches for ballet. His hands move to his ankles, and he closes his eyes, picturing her as he last saw her in person, so many long months ago. She had been cold, he remembered, and had been wearing his favourite sweatshirt. She still had it, and he saw her wearing it sometimes in the pictures she would often attach to their frequent emails to each other.

He opened his eyes again and sighed. She would never understand what he wanted to say. They lived in such different worlds, he could never tell her. It would be so much better to just forget everything.

He lay back down again on his back, closing his eyes. She didn't need to know, and wouldn't want to anyway.