“That aside, what course are you in right now?”
“Mechatronics!” She beamed, capturing for a frame that same enthusiasm I had with my course, before that raw ore of nebulous ambition weathered through time, being hit and molded with every collision, wrought with the type of impact that one can only get while speeding through life. I could feel my eyes brighten up.
“Ah, that’s a great course! I lecture at one of the campuses a half hour away, so maybe we’ll meet each other!”
“I’ll keep that in mind!”
All throughout the conversation, my head was stuck on the tract of if her choice of course, of job, of any of this, was ever hers.
The more I thought of it, the more I realized I was thinking of her, her consciousness, as being separate from those of flesh and blood. As being other. Thought patterns I very vocally wanted to end. The more I thought of it, the more I hated myself. The more I wanted to keep silent. The conversation went on undisturbed. I followed her profiles online and left feeling a fuzziness that guaranteed that I was warmer coming out than going in. Been a while since I’ve had a conversation with someone from the outernet, especially for this long. Today was a good day. I’ll probably look back on it and see nothing but my shortcomings, but today, right now, on its own, was still good. This was good. Asymptotes functioning rationally. To infinity and beyond.
I rode the Brights back home, clinging to 鬰 out of equal parts from exhaustion and a lack of options.
At midnight on a weekday, it boggles my mind how and where’re these people gonna go as they go, going through the cabs, the tracks, passing from one station to the next, viewing each clique as they pass. Tufts of coats and hair covered in glass. I muttered into her ear.
“Where’re these people going? Everything’s still open, right?”
“A huge con or something probably ended.”
“At this hour?”
“Just a guess. Most of the ones I go to now last day-round.”
“Oh, mmkay.”
We left the carriage as we came, and our neighborhood rang with a deathly, hollow silence. Each step back to our building rang out in the asphalt, and I was feeling myself to seemingly be much calmer than I was. Thankfully.
The lobby greeted me with characteristic buzz, an indicator of life offscreen.
The door greeted me with familiar creaks, an indicator that the room was mine.
I tossed the jacket I borrowed onto a chair and dropped onto the bed, sliding her pants off onto the floor. I was exhausted today, my mind was doing laps around itself. Staring at the ceiling, I called out.
“Hey, I don’t feel like changing, it’s alright if I sleep in your clothes, right?” Her response was muffled by something she picked off the fridge.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. don’t worry about it, whatever’s the most comfortable.”
Maybe it was the exhaustion contorting my thoughts, but the exchange reminded me of us before we were sure we were a thing, almost a decade ago.
I idly ran my fingers across my thighs. Red Hills and pale mounds of skin, lines fading in and out, crossing to form patterns that etched onto my body when being etched into my head wasn’t enough for them anymore. Keloids.
Scars.
The newest one’s almost five years old now, a number I plan to maintain, in all its surreal baggage. Five years ago. I was someone else, she was someone else entirely, and We had just gotten the go-ahead for the Þȝmia project, something I spent nights wasted, wasting away in all ways on how many ways our project could be waysided. Pulled out, rejected. I promised I’d stop cutting right then and there if we actually got greenlighted. We made history as we were pulling out weight.
The fact that I’ve linked the cessation of such a shitty experience to such a happy, lottery moment will never cease to amaze me.
Then again, I wouldn’t be content with something so unabashedly fortunate happening to me, of all people. Wouldn’t believe it. I should rewatch how I felt at the time. Maybe I can stomach it now.
I grabbed one of my books on the nightstand and propped it up, using it to block the light as I read. 鬰 crept on over, grabbed one of hers², and propped herself against the wall as she let the gloss on the pages fly. She propped her feet on my stomach. I groaned, and slowly brought a hand to her soles, tickling them. She kicked my hand away, I rolled to dodge another blow from her feet, and as we wriggled on the bed like this, I realized that for the first time today, I was giggling. Laughing at how inconsequential and juvenile we were being, maybe. Perhaps the stress had something to do with it, but either way, it was refreshing, this kind of sincere, uncomplicated joy. I let my guard down, I’m safe.
“Better?”
She brushed her fingers through my hair, fidgeting with strands and grooming it in ways that still elude me.
“Better.”
“God, I love you.” I said, kissing whatever part of her my lips were closest too. It took a second, but I realized my mouth was on her stomach. Now, she was laughing, too. “I love you, too. Glad you’re getting back to your old self, I could feel the heat from your mind overloading a mile away. It’s okay, I’m here. I’ll always be here, you can count on that. I’m glad you’re better.”
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