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Reggie sits at the table for a long time, silent. His hands are folded in front of him; he fidgets absently, staring down at his twitching fingers. It’s an obvious distraction, an effort not to see what’s right in front of him — but Ray doesn’t call him out on it.
Ray’s good like that. He only ever says what needs to be said.
When Reggie’s hands finally go still, it feels like a Band-Aid being torn away all at once. His throat feels tight. When the words stumble out, they burn.
“I, uhh — I never knew.” He pauses, swallows hard. “That there was anything like that.”
“Sure there is.” Ray’s voice, across the table, is perfectly casual. He doesn’t lean into Reggie’s space. His gaze doesn’t pry. He doesn’t push, doesn’t poke, doesn’t raise his voice or get frustrated.
He just… waits, and that’s worst of all. Reggie doesn’t know what to do with waiting.
Why are you telling me? he wants to ask — but, when he opens his mouth, a completely different question tumbles out. “How do you know?”
Ray chuckles, flexing his own hands as they stretch across the table. “Well,” he huffs, “I’ve got experience. I was, uhh… twelve when I got diagnosed, if I remember right. It wasn’t a new thing, but putting a name to it was pretty new. They didn’t… understand it much back then.”
Reggie picks at a hangnail on his thumb. His nails are already ragged, sore and painful. If his dad caught him doing it at the table, he’d snap at him, but Ray doesn’t say a word.
Not about that, at least. Reggie would almost prefer a scolding to this conversation. “Doctors were learning, though, and my teachers noticed I had problems. My parents were able to afford big-city doctors and expensive tests. I got lucky, I guess. A lot of people — they don’t catch it when they’re kids. That’s pretty common, it’s fine, it just… I dunno, makes life harder. A lot harder on them, when they’re just trying to get through the day.”
“Day after day after day,” Reggie replies absently. He likes the way the words roll over his tongue. When he was a kid, he had a habit of repeating words he liked in nonsensical strings, or of making sounds over and over again — popping, growling, siren noises, anything that lit his vocal chords up like a front yard on Christmas. He was pretty good at the weird sounds, too — but it was annoying, and no one wanted to hear it, so after a while, he just…
Suddenly, his tongue itches. He wants to make a sound again, to click or pop. Anything just to fill the silence.
But that’s not normal. Ray would think he was weird.
(… wouldn’t he?)
Reggie stares down at his hands, and doesn’t say another word. After a minute, Ray presses on.
“It’s common in boys and girls, but boys are more likely to get a name for it. They’re usually the ones bouncing off the walls, y’know? For whatever reason… some people get too much energy, and some get…”
“No brain?” tries Reggie. Ray cuts himself off — and, for the first time, looks stern.
“You know that’s not true.”
“I don’t,” Reggie insists, shrugging vehemently. “I don’t know anything about this! I never even thought about this before!”
“I know. That’s why I’m bringing it up.” Ray’s voice is soft, and so kind, it makes Reggie want to cry. He can’t stand to look at him anymore, but he can’t look anywhere else, either. His legs bounce restlessly beneath the table. His fingers twitch.
“I just… want you to know a little more about me, y’know? What I’ve been through. I’ve had my problems too.”
That one gets Reggie to look up in a hurry. It’s ridiculous — it doesn’t make sense. Ray’s Ray! He’s the coolest guy, the kindest man, everything a Dad’s supposed to be… he’s awesome! Ray could never have… he couldn’t —
There’s no way Ray’s like Reggie at all.
But Ray reaches across the table, and shakes an orange bottle of pills. They’re close enough for Reggie to see the blue capsules clattering inside. “I’ve been taking these since I was a kid,” Ray says, raising the bottle to the light. “Played around with prescriptions a few times, but this works best for me. They help me focus, keep my brain on track when I need it. They keep my head in the game.” He purses his lips. “It’s not for everyone, but, like I said. Works for me.”
“Because you —“ Reggie’s words feel clunky on his lips. “Have it too? The thing.”
“The thing,” Ray nods. “It’s got a name. ADHD. Stands for —“
“Yeah, I know.” Reggie shakes his head, on alert, like an antennae in the middle of a thunderstorm. “Luke, he’s got — I mean, his parents knew about it, y’know? I dunno if he was diagnosed by, like, a doctor, but everyone knew. He’s never been able to stay still.” Reggie hesitates, bracing his hands against each other. For the longest time, it seemed like that was all there was to it; his best friend probably had the ADHD thing, like a lot of the other loud, hyperactive kids in their school. It didn’t matter to them, because that was just Luke, and they loved him; it didn’t matter to Reggie, because he wasn’t like that.
Hyper? Yeah, sometimes, but not in the ‘bouncing off the walls’ way, the Luke way. Talkative? Yeah, but he could shut up if he realized he was being annoying. He wasn’t restless, he didn’t run at a mile a minute, he didn’t talk over everyone in class and make himself a distraction…
Things just — didn’t come easy for him, is all.
He never thought about it. He never wondered if the reason he spaced out so often — like, ‘sometimes miss half the conversation’ often — could mean something else. He knew he was different from other guys; even his non-Luke friends could pay attention in boring classes if they tried, or be left alone in public without wandering off and getting lost. Sometimes he forgot things; sometimes, he lost his own train of thought; sometimes, he closed his eyes and it was like losing time, having it slip past him without him even noticing or missing it. He forgot what he was doing in the middle of tasks, forgot where he was going in the middle of getting there… he just got distracted easily. Just like Luke was Luke, Reggie was Reggie. He knew he was weird — but he had friends who accepted that weirdness. Even if no one else ever would…
Reggie was okay.
He is okay. There’s nothing wrong with him.
“But I’m not like Luke,” he says, sudden and forceful. “I’m not — sick, or anything. I don’t need meds.”
Surprise flashes across Ray’s face for half a second, but it’s quickly chased away. “No one’s saying that,” he soothes. “Definitely not me. I’m not… telling you anything here, Reggie, okay? We’re just talking.”
Talking. Just talking. But why about this topic, right now?
“I’m just telling you a little more about ADHD,” Ray pushes on. “Because I’ve been able to see you guys for a while now. I… see all of you. And it’s easy to recognize familiar things, once you know what to look for.”
He shrugs, and it’s supposed to put Reggie at ease — but it really doesn’t.
“You… saw there’s something wrong with me, just by looking?” he asks softly.
Another lightning-bolt expression flashes across Ray’s face — one close to heartbreak. It’s gone as soon as it’s there, but it takes Reggie’s breath away.
“No,” Ray says forcefully. “I looked at you and I — I saw me.”
Reggie blinks. It’s a good thing he’s still a ghost, and doesn’t have to breathe, because he couldn’t work his lungs if he tried. Every cell of his body has frozen up, and there’s nothing but Ray’s kind eyes and soft voice.
“I do the same things, y’know? With the… fidgeting. I bounce my leg too. When I was younger, I used to mess with my nails.” He gestures pointedly towards Reggie’s. “Painting them helped me a lot, in, uhh… the nineties were a fun time. You ever try that?”
“No,” Reggie answers. “I really wanted to, though.”
Ray smiles, like slipping a bookmark in the conversation, something to come back to later. “And the daydreaming,” he adds, with a tiny chuckle. “That’s me all the time. It’s a bad habit.”
“The worst,” Reggie agrees.
“Kinda fun, too,” shrugs Ray, and Reggie huffs a laugh. Some tight knot in his chest is loosening, slowly, but he doesn't know what will be left when it unravels.
“The point is,” Ray says, reaching out — just close enough that their hands nearly brush, but not really, because, of course. “I kept recognizing little pieces of myself in you, Reggie, and… a lot of them felt like my ADHD. So it… seemed like something worth bringing up, in case you’d never thought of it. I’m not saying anything, or… suggesting anything.” His jaw goes tense. “And — listen to me now, this is important.” He waits until Reggie’s looking him dead in the eye. “I’m not sick. Neither is Luke. Neither is anyone else with ADHD, or autism, or… any other kind of neurodivergence.” That word goes over Reggie’s head, but Ray doesn’t slow down. “They’re not mental illnesses, mijo, and they're definitely not wrong. They’re just…”
“Different?” Reggie suggests, in a small voice.
But Ray smiles wide, and suddenly, Reggie doesn’t feel small at all.
“Different in the best way,” he agrees. “We’re not all cookie-cutter people. Different brains work in different ways, and need different things. That doesn’t make them any less…”
He hesitates, and Reggie has the uncomfortable feeling he’s seeing straight through him — in a different way from the ghosthood, this time.
“Everyone deserves love and support,” Ray finally finishes. “Especially if… your brain works different from others, and you maybe need a little more.”
Reggie inhales a shuddering breath, looking down at his hands. He remembers sitting alone in his bed, in the middle of the night, hands clamped over his ears while his parents screamed. He remembers standing alone on the beach, the sand between his toes, not sure when he started walking or where he ended up. He remembers the weird looks, the whispers behind his back, too much or too weird, spacecase, brainless. He remembers feeling so alone, even when he was dying — like there was so much life he’d forgotten to live, because he never paid attention.
“But we shouldn’t,” he says in a trembling voice. “We shouldn’t… need more.”
Ray closes his eyes, opens them again, and looks very serious. “Reggie. You’ve got to understand, life isn’t a level playing field for everybody. There’s… there’s a reason public places have wheelchair ramps now, right? ‘Cause not everyone can just walk up a flight of stairs. They need something different to get around.” He tilts his head, waiting for Reggie to accept this. “And if someone’s got an allergy, there are different kinds of food just for them. Nut-free, gluten-free, dairy-free… those are important, right? To keep them healthy, to keep them safe. It’s important to make accommodations. We can’t make life fair, but we can support people who need it. And they’re not wrong for needing it.”
“Of course,” Reggie says earnestly. “It’s not their faults, I get that. But… for us, if the problem’s in our heads, why can’t we just —“
“Get over it?” Ray raises his eyebrows. Reggie shrugs, sheepish, and he sighs. “That’s not possible. It’s a part of us. You can’t get over the size of your feet, right? There’s no getting over the wiring of your brain, either.”
Clearly, this isn’t the answer either of them are satisfied with. After a minute, Ray sighs, and reaches for his pill bottle again.
“Look. I’ve been on meds since I was twelve. They help me live a normal, functional life. And I’ve had it pretty good, okay? A great job, the best wife in the world, and some amazing kids.” (Something in Reggie perks up at the wording.) “Some people with ADHD can do that without the meds. They don’t need that extra support. Some people do need it. It depends on the person, and what they feel is right for them. But… everyone needs love, right? Friends, family, people who care about them?” He waits for Reggie to nod, and smiles when he does, like he’s overflowing with pride. “Right. Reggie, everybody deserves the support they need. Everyone deserves to know they’re not alone. No matter what you’re going through, no matter what makes you different… you’re never alone.”
Reggie squeezes his eyes shut tight. It’s a long moment before he trusts himself to breathe. His exhale comes out slow and shuddering.
“So,” he says, finally. “Inattentive ADHD, huh? You’re saying it’s a whole different thing?”
Ray smiles.
“It’s two versions of the same song. Some people’re just lucky, and have both . It’s a spectrum, not a one-size-fits-all thing, so everyone’s experience is different, but…”
“This feels like a lot to learn,” Reggie says, tentative and hopeful at the same time. He’s always loved learning, when it’s something interesting — and suddenly, he’s very interested in learning all he can about ADHD.
Ray chuckles. “It is,” he replies — and if Reggie were alive, he likes to imagine Ray would pat him on the back, or ruffle his hair. He likes to imagine it would feel nice. “Good thing you’re talking to an expert.”