I smile because it's midnight, and I want him to go to sleep. On the other side of the country it's much later, and he just doesn't want to hang up. He has a test tomorrow - I don't want to be the reason he fails.
"You need to, like, get to bed," I whisper. His eyelids flutter with every breath he takes, but stubbornness threads itself into the will that keeps him moving at all times, forcing him to power through such base desires as his need for sleep. His fingers tap whatever device he's using to talk to me with, a restless beat that his feet would make if it weren't too late for him to pace around the basement.
He rolls his eyes at me. "I can do what I want," he replies. He has a strong, powerful voice, deep like the ocean, so strangely removed from the boy I used to know. I have come to see them as different people now: the squat fifth grader who talked in a squeak and failed all of his classes, and the testosterone-struck honors-student-athlete whom he became.
"It's 3 AM for you, dumbass."
He tries to glare at me, but the effects of it is ruined by the yawn that follows. "Wow," he replies, tone dripping with sarcasm, "I didn't realize."
I ignore him and continue, "You've got school tomorrow, right?"
"So?" he asks. He's not being uncooperative for the sake of just talking to me, I know. He just wants an excuse to avoid closing his eyes.
I know the feeling.
I push away any empathy that might cloud my judgment. "Just sleep," I say. "You'll hate yourself tomorrow if you don't."
"Trying to get rid of me, I see." He aims for a wounded look, but it falls somewhere between chronically tired and pouting. "Maybe I should just go kill myself."
I blink for an extended second. He stares back at me without expression. The moment lasts for only a handful of ticks on the clock, but I try to convey something in the silence. I know he's trying to do the same, but it's like the mystical tube that connects our minds is jammed by something directly in the middle. Nothing that can be said without words will ever make it.
I sigh. "I'm hanging up now, but I'll talk to you soon, okay?"
"Kay," he answers back, an easy affirmation of something that we both know will never change.
I give him my best piercing stare, one copied from a particularly distrustful teacher, and add, "Don't do something dumb that I won't be there to yell at you for."
"Something dumb" can mean nearly anything when it comes to him, but it's broad enough that certain truths never have to be revisited.
"I'll try," he says. He never lies to me. Sometimes, I wonder if I would rather be contented by a bold falsification, to be able to pretend that words always mean their dictionary definitions and people always walk sidewalks rather than down the direct middle of the road.
I give him another farewell before I hang up. It's always me who presses the little red button to end the conversation, who stops the talk under some sort of excuse.
I curl my arms around my legs.
I smile because I can't be there to hug his lanky chest in an attempt at comfort when he cries over long-dwindled love, or step on the spiders that set chilling screams on his lips, or hide him from the monsters who haunt the daytime, monsters with meaty fists that demand perfection from their manic-depressive sons.
I smile because it's better than dissolving into tears every time I get an unexpected call at midnight and hear his voice crack as he murmurs my name.728Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeeImYvgHmD
I smile because this is the first time I've seen her in months. Her sandy blonde hair is now cut short and her eyes pop with makeup. She smiles back. I'm glad.
"I gotta tell you a story," she says, voice low and soothing. I nod with only slight hesitation. Her stories are generally long-winded tales about strange adventures and experiences. They seem so foreign to me.
Her latest one is about sneaking about as her mom and her mom's "friend" get cozy upstairs. There's a bitterness in her voice that I don't comment on. I just listen, helpfully.
"It wouldn't surprise me if she's been seeing him since before the divorce went through. After all, my dad's cheated on her before." She's not looking at me.728Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Bb9CnyZ6g
I idly stir the pot of noodles that she always requests when she appears. "How do you know?" I ask. I've known her for so long, but new information always appears, things I didn't know, things she never told me. I try to keep any tone out of my voice. She'd take it as persuasion in one direction or another.
"I can just assume," she replies matter-of-factly. I don't doubt her.
She launches into another tale. Only half of me is listening. The other part is preoccupied with thoughts. I worry that she's going too fast, that she'll get herself hurt the more she runs. She's familiar with her neighborhood policeman for more reasons than just being friendly.
But I still don't doubt her. I can't.
"Oh!" she announces, suddenly. "Yesterday, I totally just burst into tears in the middle of a test. People were all like 'What's wrong!' and I was just sobbing like - 'I don't know!'" This is punctuated with funny hand-gestures and a humorously big face-of-despair. She's a good storyteller - I laugh, despite myself. I don't know what I'm actually feeling.
She nods at my expression. It's what she was hoping for.
She says, "You know, I'm glad I have you to listen to me." She smiles at me.
I smile back because that's what she needs.
I smile because I'm torn.
On the inside, all there is is squishy parts and strange fluids that keep me alive. There's no sensations I can pinpoint; I'm in turmoil, and it keeps me level, grounded, numb.
But sometimes, I get a call at midnight, and he tells me, "I had a good day today." There are no breaks in his voice.
And sometimes, I'll warily check my phone only to see a picture sent of a black-haired boy in a sweater vest with his arm around a pretty blonde girl. Her green eyes sparkle. The caption: He makes me happy.
And I quirk my lips in something close to appreciation.
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