Page 184 of Wrath

He snaps from his classrooms—blue desk chairs with pale beige desks. He always looks so big in them, as if he nearly doesn't fit.

Saturdays, he plays intramural soccer. He snaps his cleats and socks. One time, he snapped his red-cheeked face after a game.I try not to screen shot everything he posts, but I save that one.

My favorite snaps or Insta stories are the ones from his bed. Sleepy Miller with his head on his pillow. Eyes half shut, like he's already almost out.

I want that for him. I want him to close his tired eyes and sleep. The way that I can't.

It's not because of Alton anymore—there’s no denying that fact now. It's because of him.

I thought of going back to SP. Going back on their meds. I realize there's something wrong with me, but...I can't do that. I don't want to go back.

I can keep this secret, keep the weird feelings in my chest secret. I'm starting in the fall. I’m the starting QB at Alabama.

I deserve that. I deserve...something. To make me happy.

I might know this guy—Josh Miller. Maybe that's the reason that I cry the night he posts a snap of him getting kissed by some guy I don't know at 12:14 a.m.

I feel that panic feeling, take a walk. I smoke a cigarette. The first one in...I don't know. I picked up smoking the first time around at Sheppard Pratt. So I guess I quit during my senior year. It's so bad for running.

My hands shake as I stub the thing out.

When I get back up to my room, I log onto the fake Instagram account I made for this purpose and browse through Josh's main page pictures. It's the way I go to sleep every night. Imagining him...

Sometimes it makes me feel like breaking things—because I don't have him. But when I'm tired, I look at him smiling with his friends on the gram, and it puts me to sleep. Pretending.That I know him? That he loves me?

Maybe all I'm good for is pretending after everything that happened. That's the last thought I remember before I wake up with tears on my cheeks.

This time, it's a dream about him hugging me.

I want it.

Josh Miller is trying to kill his liver. I look at his snaps and try to ESP him to slow down a little, but he doesn’t listen. He’s out every night, cheesin’ with a bunch of different people—some of them in frat T-shirts, others wearing Chucks with their jeans rolled up at the bottom and nails painted. I watch as the blond guy starts to hang out more with a red-haired guy; Josh takes snaps of them both. I watch as Josh’s dark hair grows out longer, curling in the summer heat. As he perfects drunk poses like the one where he tilts his head back, smiling halfway like he might pass out before the smile can bloom.

I learn things about him. Lots of things I store in my head like a real stalker.

He likes cherry red Icees.

He likes Cheetos and that sugary kid candy called Fun Dip.

He walks everywhere; I swear, there’s no way the guy has a car.

He doesn’t like to get sweaty, and he makes cringey faces like he’s melting when it’s really hot out.

He’s got a good sense of humor. Doesn’t take himself too seriously.

Life at Bama is moving on for me. No matter how I feel about that. I'm starting to know my neighbors on my hall in the athletic dorms. After practice, sometimes I go out for food or shit like that. I’ve made a game of avoiding Marcel after hours, even though we chat and talk on the field sometimes. Checking my phone to see Josh Miller’s updates becomes part of the day.

I've started putting the phone down at the bottom of my bed at night, so I won't roll over and be tempted to check his snap or Insta stories. Sometimes I still do.

There's a bookstore near the Auburn campus that he likes to go to. He gets paperbacks—and sometimes hardbacks—and shows the spines in his snaps. One day he getsThe Color Purple. Another day,The Berlin StoriesandLess. I buy them, too, next time I'm at work.

I know it's not normal, this. But for a little while, it's okay. I just need something. Something that can make me feel good. It makes me feel good to see him.

Sometimes I think about him when I'm falling asleep. His arms wrapped around me. I can tell he's gay—for sure. I mean, he isn't hiding it at this point. I tell myself that he would like me if he knew me. I tell myself this in a low-key way...without really saying it out loud in my head. It's a feeling I have. All of this just feelings.

Feelings to replace the other ones. Like the one where I enrolled in a short, summer semester of physics and I don't remember any of it, even though I have a list of courses I took at Fairplay High school, and this is one of them. Or the one where I still get the tight, clawing feeling a lot. Especially if I miss one of his snaps.

Josh Miller—he gives me that feeling. Like I need something. A clawing need. A splayed-hands, grasping feeling. Desperation. But watching him is also soothing.

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