Books.

Books have rules. Not a set few, and not ones you have to strictly follow, but they’re there.

In fact, it’s better if you don’t follow them. It’s seen as art. And for authors, that isn’t too hard to make- as long as you’re popular.

I find that funny, since most good authors are hidden underground. The kinds that put logic to their words. The kinds that have patterns hidden in each book, ones you can get lost so far in that you start to hear nothing but your own erratic heartbeat. And, as that starts to slow, you drown that out too until oops, it’s 3am.

Oh, pardon my manners. I’m Maxwell Enger. I struggle with anxiety and pretty much any other mental illness in the world, including being gay, which isn’t a mental illness but for the sake of pattern, let’s say it is for me. I live with my little brother Theo and my mother. I just call her Sarah though. It’s easier. It’s like she’s two different people, and one of those people has no business being my parent, so I pretend like neither of them are. Sarah was absent most of my growing up, and continues to be. Since I grew up alone and I know how lonely that is, I’m trying to build a better life for Theo. Once I turn eighteen in a couple years, I’m moving away with him to… anywhere but here. I doubt Sarah would care, though. She’d be missing us of course, since we won’t be there to provide her with cigarettes, but that’s a good thing. The only thing holding me back at that point would be my anxiety. But that’s where my best friend comes in. His name is Carter, and he’s always been there for me to lean against.

Or I guess fall against, at times.

Topple over.

The point is he’s a good friend, and he always seems to cure my anxiety when I’m around him. Everything melts away just like that… it’s heaven. And sure, I may be using him a bit, but he enjoys our friendship too. It’s a win-win.

Oh but back on the topic of books- just the thought of them makes me happy. Something about getting lost in those books… or, I guess, rather finding yourself in such a book

It’s a nice feeling.

Which is exactly why now I’m standing face to face with a guy in the fiction section, a mess of books at our feet that spilled when we ran into each other. Some books are open and flat on the ground, breaking their spines- and yet, I’m not looking at those. I’m looking at a human. Needing to initiate social interaction. Books are lovely things.

So why have they betrayed me?