Page 103 of Forever We Fall

“Hota?”

I jerk from the water and find Arlo’s silhouette on the other side of the cloudy glass.

“Are you okay?” His words are quiet, full of strain. I know he didn’t come. He didn’t even touch himself and I don’t know how to feel about that, piled atop everything else.

It’s on the tip on my tongue to lie to him. As much as I want to protect his feelings and understand his hang-ups about getting physical, I can’t tonight. I’ve given so much already.

“Not right now.” I mean it in so many ways.

He lifts his left hand and presses it firmly to the glass. I lift my right and mirror his while tears streak silently down my face. We stay that way for a long time, and then I pull my hand away, too raw to deal with him anymore.

Arlo withdrawals his hand and enters his room, making sure to leave the door cracked. The usual invitation to sleep.

I dry off, shuffle to my room and dress, and then close my door and lock it. My heavy feet drag to my empty bed and I bury myself inside. My cries lull me to sleep.

I thought nothing could break us.

I thought letting Hota have Nate would help things.

I never imagined watching him fuck Nate, goddamn, practically making him fuck Nate would be the worst torture I’d ever endured.

I could not have guessed that fucking Nate would be its own type of torture for Hota.

What’s done cannot be undone.

He cries himself to sleep that night, shutting me out. I don’t sleep, not for the next three nights. His sobs play on repeat in my head, hurting me in a way my uncle never could.

I deserve this pain. The blades in my razor call to me, but I won’t hurt Hota more to feel some relief.

His door stays locked.

In the days and weeks that follow, we go through the motions. We’re that zombie family I told Dean I’d rather live with. I got my wish. Neither of us are whole anymore.

What little was left of my tattered heart petrifies.

Though I worry more about his heart than mine.

Every night I slip a note under his door.

The words are always the same, though the language is different each time.

I’ve used sixty-seven languages so far.

A lot of my time is spent in the library and on the computer researching languages. There are thousands more to go. When I finish them, I’ll make new ones.

I’ll tell him as many times as it takes for him to understand.

I’m sorry.

We share summer classes, turn seventeen, and wait for other people, whole people, to return to the halls. Maybe they’ll bring some life with them.

I should get out of bed. Hota hasn’t begun to stir, but the pink hue of sunrise colors his cheeks and slices across his eyes. It won’t be long. Still, as I do every morning, I wait until the last possible minute.

My selfish gaze maps his every feature. The almost dimple of his chin, a new development over the summer and only visible at certain angles. The sheer planes of his cheeks. The harsh cut of his jaw. The thick furrow of his brows. The smoothness of his skin. The plumpness of his lips.

I don’t linger on his ever-present frown. I put it there and can’t figure out how to take it away. Not in a manner that we can both survive. So I push myself out of bed and straighten the covers, making it look like I was never there.

Stalking. Not something I ever saw myself taking up.

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