"Can you believe I found these under his bed?" Scarlett giggles. She holds up the item that excited her so up in the air with pride.

Wallace pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and pretends to look unaffected. "Scarlett, please, just give those back," he says.

Logan on the other hand, goes bright red.

Mikhael wonders which one of them will be the first to blame their reaction on the heat. And then, he thinks Logan to be too nice. For Logan doesn’t even bother playing along with Scarlett’s usual banter. Instead, he tries to grab the fluffy pink handcuffs that dangle around her fingers, only wanting to return Wallace’s privacy to its original state, as it should be. And Mikhael respects that about Logan—his inability at temptation to get the better someone under the influence of another—he always has.

Wallace desperately tries to catch his secrets from Scarlett’s hand, but the girl slips past him and chuckles again. A couple birds fly above their heads on the rooftop, yet, none of them pay it any heed.

Mikhael stares at the handcuffs again. If he is honest with himself, he is surprised, yet not disgusted. He knew Wallace to be quirky. They all knew. But to think that he was this kind of quirky did things to Mikhael. Things he had no desire to admit to himself. Things that led him to think he should not get ahead of himself, for perhaps the item was nothing more than a mere gag gift from a faraway acquaintance, a false alarm.

It is the look that Logan throws him which pulls Mikhael out from his thoughts, gentle and warm, forgiving and soft. And then Logan smiles. It’s the kind of smile he always gives Mikhael, and one that makes Mikhael want to punch him. Not because he is mad, but because he believes he is undeserving of such attention. They are wasted, these sweet glances, for he doesn’t truly know me, and neither do I, he thinks.

Mikhael gazes back. He does not move. He wants to capture this moment in his memory. So that he can draw it forever in sketchbooks he hides under his bed whenever Logan comes over. So that he will have something to cling to once they are not together anymore.

He nods.

Logan does the same; Mikhael’s temporary mirror, except for his expression, which is much less stoic and set in stone.

There is a sensation of bile itching at Mikhael’s throat now. It threatens him, and Mikhael fears it might come up if he doesn’t do something to shove it down. He realizes he does not want to be looking at Logan any longer. Because, if he had to describe it in a way that only he could understand—it would be the color purple. And Mikhael hates purple, because it is a color that cannot decide whether it wants to be red or blue.

He rips open his neatly packed lunch against the protests of Logan, who tells him it might be a bit too early to eat. His only reply comes as a bite. He tears pieces from the sandwich he bought at the convenience store a few hours ago. The ham already tastes like it’s been in his bag for far too long, but it’s nothing compared to the fear running in Mikhael’s veins of being found out, of throwing up his insides in front of his friends. He takes another bite, hears Logan sighing right beside his ear, notices that Logan has moved in closer. His heart stops. Don’t stop, he thinks, almost so loudly, that he has to ask himself if he has not spoken the words for real.

He hasn’t.

His hand squeezes around the weakened and rather soggy bread. A sliced tomato slips out from between the pieces. Logan picks it up before Mikhael can do anything and throws it in the bin. He says, “You should be more careful.” It’s a tease. It is said with a grin, and Mikhael knows this. He knows Logan doesn’t really mean it. But it’s like something is hammering words in his skull, questions regarding whether or not he can truly be sure that Logan didn’t mean it. Because Mikhael thinks he is right. He should be more careful, always.

The bell rings.

Mikhael is the last to rise from the concrete bathed in the sun’s warmth. Even though they are already heading back, even though Logan is now standing in the doorway and waiting for him, holding open the decaying orange door—Mikhael can still smell his deodorant lingering in the air.

He thinks it is enough to drive him mad, yet, he is already too far gone, and there is no way someone who is already mad can be driven mad.

Right?

Right?

“Mikhael?”

“I’m coming.”

Mikhael is glad. Glad that the bell rung. Glad that Wallace has gotten his handcuffs back. Glad that Scarlett is still laughing and can laugh in the way she does where it is like everything is okay and nothing will ever be wrong.

He takes one final glance up at the sky, where the sun is now hidden by clouds.

It is the beginning of summer, their final week of high school, a bird is flying, he wonders where to.