“Nothing should be wrong.” I squeezed my elbow, and glanced downward. “At least… I don’t see why something should be wrong.”

“Did I hurt you?” David seemed to recoil in on himself as he said this. And it didn’t feel like an arrow anymore—I was being run over by a Trojan Horse and shit on by three birds.

To put this in millennial terms: I felt crappy, friend.

I did not want to share my arrows with David.

I did not want to do to him what strangers did to me.

“You didn’t.” I shook my head. I said, “I’m sorry. I’m just… feeling off today.” Friend, what is worse? Lying, or being filled with guilt for being honest? “I’m sorry, David,” I muttered. “I know you almost died, and I don’t feel like I should be complaining since I’m healthy and well—but I feel horrible, and I don’t know how to make it stop.”

It was as if telling him the truth had removed the lid to my own version of Pandora’s box. I started sobbing, and I was saying things that probably didn’t make much sense because my nose was clogged up by disgusting fluids also known as snot.

Fuck, I thought. What am I doing here, crying in front of him and wasting our time together, when I had planned out a whole date that could have turned into the perfect day for us?

I had ruined it, I told myself.

I’ve ruined everything, and it’s my fault, because I couldn’t hold myself together.

David stepped forward. I flinched.

I wondered if his feet were cold against the checkered tiles, just like mine were, when I looked down to avoid facing his gaze.

He reached out. He let his palm ghost over mine. “Can I?” he said.

The question made a faraway memory return to me—one where I had told David about being okay with my hands, when he had asked me if any parts of this body didn’t disgust me, during one of our online chats. It was only once, and months ago. Yet… he remembered.

I gasped.

I bit my lip, and nodded.

He gently slid his hand between mine. It’s sappy, but it occurred to me that it belonged there once he did so. “I don’t mind, you know,” he said; his voice was low, as if he were talking to a stray cat. “Those conversations we had back in those chats, I still remember them.”

“How much of it do you remember?” I couldn’t help but ask the question. I had to know. And perhaps, by having this conversation, I could also maybe convince myself a little more that this was the same David who had thrown a sock full of come at a postman during early morning hours.

David brought my hand up to his lips. He kissed my knuckles. Our gazes finally met. “I remember that, sometimes, there are days where it’s hard for you to be yourself.” His lips moved down to my wrist. Something about the way he pressed his mouth to my skin fascinated me so much that, even though I hadn’t realized it at first, I stopped crying. “And I just want you to know, Alexander, that I’m here. I’ll be here. On the days when you enjoy life, and on the days when you don’t know how to feel anymore—I’ll be there.”

If this had been a movie, perhaps I would have ran into his arms and kissed him.

If this had been a novel, maybe we would have made love so sweet that it would have cured me of all my woes.

I squeezed David’s hand.

“I love you,” I said.

David squeezed back. “I love you too, Alexander.”

Friend, am I twisted for thinking that this day was, in a certain way, perfect?

Yours,

Alexander