Wrong. Wrong. I was very wrong. I was so wrong. This is the most uncomfortable I have ever been in my entire life. This was a terrible idea. 

Earlier, I made the decision to sit next to him, and I’ve stuck by his side all day without him telling me off. That sounds pretty ideal, right? But while it’s true that he hasn't moved away, he also hasn’t talked to me. We’ve been sitting in silence with each other for about six hours now, and I can’t stand it. It feels so awkward and tense. I keep catching him throwing glances at me from the corner of his eye, and he’s caught me doing the same multiple times as well. But we haven’t said anything.  

It’s almost the end of the day though, so I’m very thankful I won’t have to keep this up for much longer. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have tried anything, even if all I did was just sit here and do nothing. I should’ve known that I’d be too shy to confront him about anything. People always take me for being so bold about my emotions, and while that’s true most of the time, dealing with Henry is a bit different. Have you ever tried to confess your love to someone? It’s terrifying.  

I can’t back down now though.  

So, when the teacher finally releases us to go home, I make the bold move and stop Henry from leaving. I reach out for his arm, not even expecting him to notice me since I’m so small, but he lets me spin him around as if he weighed no more than me. It surprises me. It’s almost as if he was waiting for it or maybe waiting for me. 

“Wait, before you go,” I nervously start, knowing I have his full attention, “do you perhaps want to come over?” 

I brace for rejection but am pleasantly surprised when Henry smiles and nods his head. 

“Yeah, definitely,” he answers, which puts a smile on my face too.  

I don’t wait for him to change his mind. I drop my hand into his and pull my oversized friend out of the schoolhouse, planning to rush all the way to my house where I can confess in the privacy and safety of my own territory. Unfortunately, my plot is ruined. As soon as we get outside, we’re stopped by Gunther, which is confusing as he’s supposed to be at the university across town, but I don’t have time to question him before Gunther rushes forward and takes a hold of me by the sides of my arms. 

“James, I need you to do something for me,” he tells me frantically. It makes me equally as jumpy and nervous. 

“What?” I ask in confusion. Then when what he said finally processes with me, I ask again, “What?” 

“Please, just distract our parents, okay? Don’t let them notice I’m gone. I have to do something important and—” 

“Gunther, aren’t you supposed to be in class?” I interrupt him. 

“Don’t tell Pa. He’d kill me, but can you do this for me?” he begs, searching my face for an answer. 

“Will bringing a friend over distract them enough?” 

Gunther’s eyes dart behind me to Henry, and they stay there. Probably because Henry’s a freak of nature, already being 6’1” at the age of fourteen.  

“Has he ever come over before?” Gunther asks.  

“Yeah.” 

My brother hurriedly weighs his options, tilting his head back in forth with pros and cons, but he seems to give up on making an informed decision and settles with, “Let's just hope they don’t see that I’m missing.”  

Gunther gives me an affirming nod then lets go of my shoulders, bidding me a quick farewell before running off down the street to who-knows-where. I don’t even question it. Gunther and I are close, sure, but he’s older than me and has his own life. I don’t bother with his personal affairs just as he doesn’t bother with mine. I’ll admit, though, that his distraught expression does make me worry, but I’m sure it’s fine. Gunther knows how to take care of himself—most of the time. 

I turn back to glance at Henry and wave my hand for him to follow me, so he does. I thought that since he was happy to come over to my house, the awkwardness would disappear, but that is apparently not true. It’s not as uncomfortable now, but it’s still pretty relevant. At least now it has been established that we don’t hate each other. That’s good at least. 

The only sound between us is the shift of rock and dirt under our feet as we walk up the hill to my house, a large two-story estate that has become the envy of the town. Occasionally, we’ll hear the chirp and song of birds in the tree line, but the majority of them have migrated away from the cold. It doesn’t get all too freezing here on the riverside in Mississippi, but many animals still consider it beyond their limits. I envy them, I think. I’ve never been able to stand the cold nor the still monotony of the lonely northern air.   

Silence has always been maddening to me, which is why walking like this with my best friend is so excruciatingly painful. I try my best to keep busy because I can’t stand being alone with my conscience. Moments like these leave me alone to myself. And that scares me. 

I scare me.  

Right now, the quiet arouses the topic of my confession. How am I planning to do this? Will this truly ruin everything? Should I really wait until we’re in my room, or will I chicken out before then? Now is as good of a time as ever. We’re alone, and I won’t be able to run away like a coward because I already invited him over. It’ll probably make the rest of the evening a whole lot less awkward too. 

I open my mouth to say something, but it feels like the words can’t come to me. Inside my head, I keep counting down from five, but when I get to zero, I start over again, saying that I just wasn’t ready the first time. I’m too nervous. I feel like I can’t work my body right, so I have to force the words out of my lips. 

“Henry,” I manage, and he stops and turns to me. I stop as well, but I don’t look up. My eyes are trained on the road in front of me. 

My heart is racing beyond my belief, but now he’s waiting on me to finish speaking, which means I have no choice but to continue.  

“I-I liked it, you know?” I stutter out. 

I can tell by the sudden shift in mood that he knows exactly what I’m talking about. At first, it worries me, but then I realize it means I won’t have to explain myself any further. I’m thankful for that because I think I would pass out if I had to. My face is burning up with blush, and it’s killing me. 

I think I’m going to implode and die. 

It certainly does not ease my blood-rush when I see him nod slightly out of the top of my vision. I hear him say, “Yeah, me too.” 

I swear my heart skips a beat, and my lungs freeze. I’m suffocating even standing next to him. I want to touch him so badly, but right now he’s like a museum piece. He’s only four inches away, but I’m afraid that, if I lay even a finger on him, he’ll disappear or crumble into nonexistence. I’m afraid I might ruin everything. It’s impossible. 

I expect him to add or do something more, but much to my horror, Henry ends the conversation there, turning back to continue his way up the incline without another word. I start off as well, walking along with him, but only because I'm clinging to the hope that there’s more he wants to say. I need closure at least. A rejection would suffice, but I need something more—anything more than “Yeah, me too.” Otherwise, I will have to assume the worst, and I’d rather not think of that at all.  

Please, Henry, give me something. Give me something so that this won’t have to hurt. 

Then as if he heard my silent prayer, I feel his fingers ever so slightly brush against mine. My first instinct is to assume it was a mistake, but all of my self-doubt instantly washes away when he delicately hooks a couple of his fingers into my own. It’s as if he hesitates—as if he’s just as terrified of scaring me away—but doesn’t he know? I could never be afraid of my savior. 

Finally, he seems to gain enough confidence to fully take my hand in his, and it’s all the confirmation I need, even though this fills me with an entirely new kind of anxiety. We’ve held hands before, of course, but this time is different. I feel smaller now. Because I am. I’m minuscule next to him, but I mean it emotionally too. I’m a child like this, his hand completely covering mine. Suddenly it feels less like I’m guiding him and more like he’s guiding me. And I let him.  

I think I’m okay with that. I mean, I’m dying inside, my heart seizing and lungs completely missing, but I’d rather die like this than any other way. It puts a bashful smile on my face as we walk together to the house on the mound, and I think this might be the start of better. With Henry, it’s always better. He’s better. 

When I look up at him, standing almost a foot above me, I’m just as astounded by his beauty as ever, but I can also see his emotions now, which makes the moment even more fascinating. Everything is now apparent from the light pink tint covering his cheeks and branching up to his ears, and I love it. For once, he’s an open book to me. And he’s nervous.  

I want to tell him it’s okay, but I can’t find my words; I can only gawk at his presence.  

Where are my words, Lord?