Work Text:
Feels a little like it might be the day
That I run out of all the right things to say
And it feels a little like
I’m not quite ready
–sunday–
The decision to end your own life comes with something absolutely gut wrenching. It sits like a shadow on your mind, wheedling holes through the very surface of your being. It is a sadness that builds in the back of your throat, burns behind your eyes, aches in the hollow space of your chest.
Hamzah is outside, when it comes for him. Martin is there with him, a warm weight pressed into his side, the sun beating down on them from above with proud golden rays. He is not a stranger to the passing musings, there are times when he’ll prod at the idea, just for something to do. But it’s different this time, it’s solid and heavy enough his shoulders slump.
Martin shifts, chattering animatedly and thrusting the heavy weight of his video camera into his face. He blinks to focus his eyes on the screen. It’s difficult to see through the sheen of light glinting off of the glass, but if he squints just enough he can make out the shimmering blue, the fluttering wings, the water drops sent flying.
The shot came out rather beautiful.
The thing is, it’s a good day. But it gets him thinking. It gets him wondering. It gets him observing everything and ordering them up in a nice little line in his head.
Hamzah looks at them, well and truly looks at them, and he asks himself, is this worth it?
I don’t want to live tomorrow, he thinks, his heart thundering in his chest.
It is terrifying, it is visceral, someone has taken a sword to his body and cut him clean in half. Something clicks in his mind, something disparaged, something once shut firmly behind a heavy wooden door out in the howling winter winds of oblivion. The door is open now, the snow is pouring in, don’t leave the door open , Claire laughs, no use heating the outside .
He thinks about the next season of a TV show that he and Martin had been waiting for. It’s meant to come out sometime next year. He thinks about the fourth book in that series he likes, set to release a few years from now. He thinks about Christmas coming up in just a short month.
He thinks the Earth will keep turning, the stars will keep shining. Martin can catch the new season without him, maybe with Mandy curled into his side instead. The next book will come out for all of the other fans to read. Christmas will sweep in, and he will be long gone before he can even think of missing it.
It’s fucking shitty. It's the worst. And it’s selfish. Hamzah has always been selfish, since he was four years old and demanding his mom read another book to him before she can head to bed, or they have to go for ice cream before they go home, or pleeeease can he finish the last bite of dad’s cake. It’s something inherent and fundamental in him. He agrees to help Martin with his video only at the promise of maybe a paid for lunch in return, he refuses invites to hang out because he doesn’t want to get out of bed. He wants to kill himself, when there’s nothing wrong.
It’s selfish.
It’s dirty.
It’s fitting for him.
I want to take another breath, he thinks, and he breathes so deeply it expands his whole chest. The air is fresh in his lungs, chill with the early onset of fall and so desperately addicting that he breathes again. It’s wasted air, on a dead man.
I don’t really want to die. Hamzah says to that part of his mind that is wondering what would be faster, bleeding out or overdosing. I want to live. He wants to stay. He wants to drag himself out of this hole, this stasis, his shitty two room apartment that he can barely live in. He wants the shaking of his hands to fade out enough for him to function normally. He wants to be different.
Hamzah wants to turn to Martin, still flicking through his videos. He wants to tell him. He wants to let the words fall from his tongue, he wants Martin to wrap him up tight in a sturdy embrace and say, it’s okay, we’ll get you all fixed up.
But is it worth it? He wrinkles his nose, considering the yawning abyss in his chest, considering the thought in his mind, I wonder if I could hang myself.
Is it worth it? When life can’t offer him salvation? Everything ends. And nothing could be worth coming to terms with that eventuality. White hair and a hunched back and a fading mind, Martin at his side just the same. What's the goddamn point when it all ends up there?
His breath trembles on the next intake, “How’s Mandy doing?”
“Hm?” Martin says, pitching his voice curiously as his mind catches up to the question, “Oh! She’s really good! We’re fostering another puppy, actually. She’s picking him up right now.”
“Sounds fun,” Hamzah mumbles.
“Yeah, I’m super excited! Hey, we should get moving again, I want to stop by the fountains.”
I’m going to kill myself. His mind decides, and his stomach lurches.
***
The decision is set in stone for him, when, that night, he’s sitting at the kitchen table with Martin having a blast without him and his family thousands of miles away, and the apartment is a damning silence all around him.
Because, in the emptiness of the rooms and the silence crawling along the walls and the memories barking like rabid dogs in the back of his mind, there’s a weight on his chest that grows heavy enough he has to physically bend and rest his forehead against the tabletop to relieve it.
It's a warning sign, Hamzah thinks, from his failing heart.
If he stays here, if he leaves himself to rot away, it’ll only grow. He'll suffocate beneath the bending pressure until his lungs choke out one last agonized breath and his body gives out on him.
He doesn’t want to live like that.
He thinks he’d fight through the cold wash of panic that sweeps through him every time he steps up to the railing with intent to throw himself over, if only so he didn’t have to live under this crushing thing every day.
So, there’s not much left to decide.
–monday–
Hamzah lets it slip one night on FaceTime that he has never been to Niagara Falls, despite living in Toronto for far too long. Claire thinks this is the best thing ever, but Chase takes him a little more seriously. He buys boat tickets on screen share and tells Hamzah to be ready when the day comes. They were going to the falls, whether he likes it or not.
Hamzah appreciates the effort, but he really could care less.
They make good time driving and get to the falls before midday and it’s such a strange thing to see in real life, a sheer drop cut into a river, white mist thrown into the air. Weirder still is how urban it is, because waterfalls always feel like they should be in the middle of a forest or a jungle. The sort of place that takes days to get to, no roads, only bare tracks that people have to walk in single file. Mosquito nets and steel-capped boots. Hamzah feels a little bit like something’s gone wrong, to get them there, so close to something so wild.
They take the boat out, with a crush of other people, all wrapped up in clear blue raincoats. Sun catches every droplet of water in the air, throwing up rainbows and bright white light, with blue sky above everything and the roar of water, so loud it’s hard to breathe.
Hamzah watches the water, tries to trace a drop from top to bottom, and something about it makes him think of the ocean, too, and of the difference there is in water falling over his fingers in waves and water falling over rock or earth. Like the difference between a cut lawn and the summer-dry grass of the park.
Something that exists without human intervention. Something that seems impossible and inevitable all at once. It makes his throat feel tight and his heart feel too big for his chest and he presses the tips of his fingers to his breast bone, hard enough that it feels like if he could only be a bit braver, press a little harder, he might break through something important.
But he is scared.
Chase is tugging on his arm and his thoughts fracture into something sweeter, something less stuck in his head, and he’s at Niagara Falls again. Hamzah keeps swiping at the mist with his hand, like he might be able to stop it getting on his face, but it’s obviously impossible. He lets out a groan, and Chase, watching him, laughs, pushes him, and Hamzah forgets about the falls all over again.
It doesn’t take Chase long to struggle out of his blue raincoat entirely, opening his arms to the water. He’s soaked in an instant, his t-shirt sticking to his skin and his hair falling over his forehead. He ties the raincoat around his waist, slips, almost falls, and grins triumphantly at Hamzah when he gets his balance back. Chase laughs and part of Hamzah wants to take his coat off too but a louder part of him doesn’t trust the river water and definitely doesn’t want to get sick.
They get ice creams from the little shop at the dock and eat them on the way to their car. Hamzah falls asleep in the car, and Chase drives them all the way back to Hamzah’s apartment, the sunset right on their heels.
Chase shakes him, strangely gentle, and Hamzah blinks awake.
“We’re here?”
“Yup,” Chase says, still soft, “I’ll see you later, okay, Hamzah?”
“Yeah,” Hamzah says, grabbing his backpack and heading inside.
***
He showers as quick as possible and stumbles into his bed. He gets caught up in weird TikTok hate edits, the ones that he can’t stop watching even if he tried, that make him feel weirdly insecure about stupid things like his nose, his teeth, his body.
It’s close to two in the morning when Claire calls him. He picks up on the first ring.
He can’t even get a word out of his mouth before she is saying, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“What are you doing up so late?” Hamzah’s dancing around her question.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Claire admits honestly. He can almost hear her biting her lip. The white of her teeth, the swollen redness of her lips.
His heart skips a beat. “Wanna come over?”
“Chase has my car for tomorrow, remember? He’s going to New York for a day for some video.”
Hamzah remembers. “Can I come over?”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Claire says again, almost desperately.
Hamzah swallows, hard.
I can’t shower without turning the light off before because most of the time I don’t even recognize the body staring back at me and I refuse to look at it I wake up every morning and brush my teeth until my mouth is filled with blood because even though I know it won’t I can’t help but feel it will stop my teeth from being yellow even though they’re not and-
“When you picture the future, what do you see?” Hamzah asks softly.
Claire, confused, says, “I– I don’t know. College, I guess? YouTube. I’ve got my internship.”
“And Martin’s successful, and Mandy’s got animals and nursing, and Chase has his job.”
“Yeah?” Claire hesitates. She seems to get it because she asks, “Hamzah… what do you see when you look at the future?”
“Nothing. I don’t see anything. All I can see is the next tired day.” Hamzah pauses. “I’m not strong enough to keep on.”
Claire makes a noise. “Hamzah,” she says, “Hamzah, there’s so much more out there than tired days. I promise you. Life is- Hamzah, this world is so big, and there’s still so much out there. It isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. You can always go get it. And even when you think you’ve seen it all, trust me when I say that there’s always more.”
Hamzah’s lips waver, turning down.
He wishes that were enough.
–tuesday–
They’ve had this video planned for months, it feels like. Hamzah and Martin would pack their backpacks and go to the Ritz-Carlton Toronto, and there they would order room service and eat really, really, really good food.
Hamzah forces himself to be excited, for Martin.
It’s easy, almost too easy, to put on a smile around his best friend. Martin’s energy is infectious, and Hamzah feels a little bit better whenever he makes a joke and Martin looks at him with his phone pointed towards him, trying not to laugh from behind the camera. Mandy drops them off at the hotel and, once in their room, they unpack, both of them bringing random objects from their home that they know will make each other laugh.
Martin is in the other room, putting on his Speedo, probably, and Hamzah pulls out his vape and steps out onto the balcony, taking a hit and feeling immensely more lightweight. Martin comes behind him a few minutes later, glancing at the vape in his hand and frowning a little.
“I thought you were quitting,” Martin said carefully. They never really talk about this kind of stuff, not after Hamzah yelled at him to mind your own fucking business, Martin.
“It makes me happier,” Hamzah almost pleads, and Martin’s lips part. He looks like hes going to say something, but stops himself.
“Okay,” he says, “Go change.”
Hamzah throws on his shirt and board shorts before heading out to meet Martin.
“Let’s go,” he says, and Martin gives him a toothy smile.
They make a pretty good bit with the kids at the pool, who accept Martin as one of their own. Hamzah sits on the chairs beside, never getting in but instead filming Martin’s antics. Back in their room, they order all kinds of fancy shit off of room service. Martin chokes on a piece of steak and Hamzah, laughing, hits him hard on the back.
When they wind down in their shared bed, at night, it feels almost too good. They’re just talking, not really about anything specific, but out of nowhere, and for no reason, Hamzah feels terrible. Sick to his stomach, heart-breakingly terrible. Martin is ranting about Mandy’s latest blind-box pull when Hamzah suddenly sniffles, and his eyes water, and suddenly he is sobbing, hiding his face in his hands, babbling about killing himself but unable to get one word out, and gravitating towards Martin, who reaches for him, understands what he’s trying to say, and whispers in his ear.
Hamzah cries until he can’t anymore. When he sniffles, finally calm, Martin lets go of him and reaches for his phone. Hands Hamzah an earbud. Leans all into Hamzah’s space, showing him the new bands he’s been listening to recently. Hamzah knows what this is – a promise to stay.
Here's a band that I like, stay and listen to their music – if you like them, then we can go to a concert together, in the future, if you like them, then we can wait together for the next album, in the future – stay, stay, stay.
Hamzah lets him.
Unspoken between them: Stay. Unspoken between them: I care about you.
–wednesday–
The next day, after Mandy picks them up, Hamzah stays over with her at her and Martin’s apartment. Martin had to go to the office to fix some kind of problem, but promised Hamzah that he didn’t have to come. There was almost no pity in his face, but instead something impossibly caring behind his eyes, which Hamzah appreciated infinitely. He doesn’t want to burden anyone more than he already has.
Mandy doesn’t really do much, he realizes. Today, she tells him, she’s going to get more blind boxes. Hamzah has never seen her do this. He’s opened one with Claire, but that was at the Miniso near his apartment. Mandy has all of them online .
She buys one, they predict which one they want from the options, and when she opens it, she just about jumps with joy.
“It’s cool that you’re so passionate about this,” Hamzah says.
Mandy looks at him, and Hamzah suddenly feels transparent.
“What do you do that you’re passionate about, Hamzah?” she asks.
Hamzah thinks for a long time. “I skate,” he suggests.
“Alone?”
“Yeah,” Hamzah admits. “It’s better that way. I like being alone.”
“Can you do tricks?” she asks him, interested.
“It takes a couple tries, but yeah. I can kickflip. But I fall, most of the time.” The corners of her mouth quirk upwards.
“As cliche as it might sound, life will continue putting you through the same situations over and over again until you’ve truly learned your lessons.” she tells him, “We don’t learn to fully love ourselves in isolation, because we don’t exist in isolation.”
He stares at her in almost disbelief.
“Mandy-”
“Take me with you, next time. I’d like to see you skate,” she grins at him, and then turns back to her computer to open another blind box.
***
He gets really drunk, that night. He’s never been so drunk in his whole life, he thinks. And one hit on his vape makes his head spin. The alcohol and nicotine don’t mix well in his system. He gets so angry he punches the wall, which makes his knuckles burn. Then, because his knuckles burn, and he’s angry, so angry, at the world but mostly at himself, he punches the window. It shatters, and the shards stick into his hand, and there’s blood dripping everywhere .
Head spinning, he clumsily pulls the big shards out of his hand and collapses on the couch.
–thursday–
There’s someone knocking at his door.
“‘M comin’,” he groans, voice muffled into the cushion of his couch. His hand is throbbing awfully.
The knocking gets louder.
“Okay!” he yells, and pulls himself up and to the door.
It’s Claire. He’s confused for a second before he remembers they had plans for today. Claire wanted to go to Riley’s Aquarium of Canada. It’s not far from his apartment, and he agreed to take her so she would stop sending him aquarium TikToks.
“Hey,” he says, grinning.
“Jesus, Hamzah,” she says, horrified, “What happened?”
“What?” he asks, confused.
“Your hand,” Claire says in disbelief.
“Oh, I punched my window,” he says offhandedly, “Well. First I punched my wall, but then, I-”
“There’s still glass in there!” Claire gasps, and grabs his arm, pulling him towards his bathroom. Hamzah kicks the door shut quickly.
“Claire, it’s fine, it really doesn’t hurt, and anyways, we’ve gotta go-” Hamzah protests.
“Boy, I don’t care where we have to go right now, you’re literally bleeding everywhere,” Claire shakes her head, opening the cabinet under his bathroom sink and sitting him on the closed toilet seat. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”
Hamzah scratches his head. “Um… There should be a box of bandaids in there, or something…”
“Oh my god,” Claire interrupts, taking her nails and picking out a particularly deep shard of glass, “Shut up, Hamzah.”
“It’s cute you care,” Hamzah throws out. Claire glares at him, dipping a paper towel in disinfectant and swiping it across his knuckles. “Ow.”
“You bled all over your couch,” Claire mutters, digging around for a band-aid.
“Hey, Claire, look at me,” Hamzah says suddenly, serious. She doesn’t look up from peeling off the wrapper of a band-aid. “ Claire.”
There’s tears gathering in the corners of her eyes when she faces him, and he feels a little like he’s missed out on something.
“Claire-”
“Why would you do this, Hamzah?” she asks gently. He doesn’t answer, just watches as she carefully lays band-aids and neosporin on his blood-red knuckles. Once they’re on, she runs her fingers over them, soothing and caring and there .
“Let me change, and then I’ll take you to the aquarium, ‘kay?” Hamzah stands, stretching. Claire looks away, biting her bottom lip.
“Alright.” He runs his knuckles over the top of her head as he passes.
***
He’s always loved fish. It sounds dumb, but it’s true.
And he’s never been to an aquarium.
He doesn’t tell Claire this, but he knows she can tell. She smiles fondly as they look at the touch tank tide pool exhibits, where he jumps back when the anemone grabs at his finger, and the penguins outside, who jump in excitement for his video, and the birds in the cages that they get to feed, and the seals and sea otters that whiz past them in the tank that’s shaped like a tunnel that they can walk through.
Claire leads him to the deep-sea exhibits, where they see jellyfish and creatures that don’t really look like fish, but Hamzah loves them all anyways, equally and whole-heartedly. Claire pulls out her digital camera and takes pictures of Hamzah grinning with every single one, never getting annoyed when he lingers at a certain tank or asks her for another photo.
Towards the end, they find one of the tanks that is floor-to-ceiling huge, with dozens of schools of fish of all sizes swim past them. It’s beautiful. That’s the only word for it– large and expansive– looking up into it feels like it’s wrapping itself around your eye so you can get it all. Reef sharks swim past them, friendly and winking and much, much more than Hamzah ever deserves. Than any of them have ever deserved.
“Holy shit,” Hamzah says, stunned.
Next to him, Claire laughs, as if she’s planned this. She hasn’t, of course, and that sad tinge to her voice gives her away. She wanted something else from this aquarium adventure. And Hamzah has a suspicion as to what it was.
There’s distant chatter from other rooms, and Claire and Hamzah sit on a bench against the wall. She pulls out her journal, tears a page from it and hands it to him, along with a sparkly colored pen. Claire draws her knees up to her chest and starts to write. Hamzah glances at her, and then stares back at his own piece of paper, uncapping his pen and holding it to the page.
Nine hundred and forty-eight seconds pass until Claire is finished with her writing, which is accompanied with little drawings of fish and birds and two stick figures holding hands that look oddly similar to her and himself.
Hamzah was only able to write one sentence. It’s all so futile.
He knows his suspicions were right when Claire’s hand reaches for his. Hamzah curls into it, away from the cramped hardness of the bench. Why, the pulse pressed on his asks. Why, why, why. He lets himself be pulled close, their shoulders touching, but stays silent – his own answers like swarming flies over his rotting heart.
At least there’s the aquarium and the chatter of the other people to cover the silence. The fish swirl in fron of him, illuminated in the dark room by bright blue. Hamzah’s eyes blur over. He wishes his truth was as beautiful as this.
–friday–
Mandy texts him that morning. She wants to see the re-screening of Manchester By the Sea. Hamzah has never seen that movie before. Claire, sitting next to him on the sofa, leans over and reads what Mandy has written. She decides she is coming with.
They meet at the theater, where Mandy has snuck them candy by stashing it inside of Martin’s bike helmet, attached to her stomach. Claire laughs until she’s doubled over, clutching at Hamzah to hold her up. Hamzah smiles, but can’t bring himself to do more than that, strangely melancholy.
They’re the only three in the theater. He sits in between Mandy and Claire, who keep reaching over him to pass candy amongst themselves. He doesn’t eat anything. The lights dim, and the movie starts.
It’s incredible. It’s emotionally draining. He is transfixed the entire time. It’s wonderfully intimate and wholly human. It doesn’t even feel like a real movie.
Claire and Mandy seem stuck on Casey Affleck and Lucas Hedges, who they argue over which is “the cutest character in the whole movie.”
“Mandy,” Claire sighs, walking next to Hamzah down the street. “Casey Affleck is one thousand percent cuter.”
“Claire-”
Hamzah swallows, drowning them out.
“Hamzah,” Mandy says, nudging him, “What did you think?”
They pause at the crosswalk, and Claire presses the button. Mandy looks at him, with that same transparent look she gave him back at Martin’s apartment.
“‘You don’t understand. There’s nothing left,’” Hamzah says.
“What?” Claire asks, confused.
“It’s… from the movie,” Hamzah mutters.
“Oh,” Mandy says, “Yeah! I liked that part.”
They cross the street, and Claire and Mandy’s argument over the two actors continues.
Hamzah puts his hands in his pockets and walks with his head down a few feet behind them.
There’s nothing left. I can’t beat it.
–saturday–
“Hey, man,” Martin’s voicemail says, “I feel like I haven’t seen a lot of you this week. Do you want to go out to breakfast? I found this place down the street that I think you would really like. Could be brunch, if you want. You should sleep, you seem like you need it. Let me know. Okay. Love you, man.” The message clicks off.
Hamzah sighs, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in bed. It would be easy to cancel, he knows. Martin wouldn’t hold it against him any more than a few subtly-concerned questions. But that seems wrong, after the hotel fiasco.
Might as well hang out with him as much as I can before…
Killing himself is already selfish enough, he doesn’t need to be pulling back from Martin now.
***
It’s just the two of them, at breakfast. No Mandy, No Claire, no Chase. Martin and Hamzah sit outside. It is not too warm, but still cold enough that Hamzah is glad he brought his jacket. They make small talk, but there is something deeply sad between them.
When they’ve finished eating, Martin puffs out an over exaggerated breath, tugging his sleeves down over his hands, “it’s going to start getting cold soon. Do you think that there will be snow next week?”
“I don’t think we can make a bet on that when we’re both going to have the same answer.”
Martin sticks his tongue out, “no fun.”
Martin doesn’t move, so Hamzah doesn’t either. They just stand there, watching traffic roll by and pedestrians give them odd looks out of the corners of their eyes, the silence between them only interrupted by the sounds around them. Goodbyes aren’t usually this difficult between them. He can understand it for him, he knows this will likely be his last, but it doesn’t make sense for Martin to be hesitating upon this threshold in the same way.
Martin’s always been loud and over dramatic when he cries, whether after an argument or in the wake of his goldfish’s death or he stubs his toe on the lip of a stair, the waterworks are guaranteed. He’s probably going to cry like that, whenever the news about Hamzah works its way around to him. Hamzah bites his cheek, and reminds himself Martin won’t be alone. Mandy’s here.
Hamzah’s not looking at him, but he can see the frown etching into the lines of Martin’s face out of the corner of his eye.
The bell strung up just above the coffee shop door jingles, and Martin tugs him out of the way so the group that passes through can get by. Right, they’ve been stalling.
Hamzah sniffs, “I should be getting back then.”
“Text me when you get home, so I know you didn’t die in a ditch or something.”
“I think you’re the much more likely murder victim, Martin.”
“No way, anyone tried I’d stab the shit out of them. You don’t have that in you though.”
“The fuck I don’t-”
“See you.”
He scoffs, but he lets it drop. He lets Martin walk away.
He turns himself to start down the street, so he’s not just staring at Martin’s retreating form once again, and he thinks, goodbye.
***
That night, he can’t sleep.
He writes letters to anyone he can think of, placing them in a neat order on top of his desk. He lays his will right beside it. He has written down anything anything of importance that he will have left behind.
He lays in his bed, hands shaking, staring at the ceiling.
His heart is skipping beats. Pausing, and then coming back a few seconds later with a thump against his chest that hurts so badly Hamzah curls up in pain.
Every time, it seems to say one word, louder and louder until it’s almost too much for him to bear, as if the whole weight of the world is telling him the same thing, over and over.
Stay .
–Sunday–
Hamzah’s not sure where he’ll end up tonight, but he knows he’ll be dead before the sun rises. He doesn’t much care about what else happens, he hasn’t planned it at all. He could be a smear on the pavement, or sinking to the bottom of the lake, or slowly falling asleep behind some shitty eye aching twenty-four hour shop with a plastic bottle in his pocket.
Martin was right, it’s getting cold as hell, and Hamzah has to pull his fingers up into his sleeves so they don’t go numb but the fabric is not a good shield. There’s a wind too, blowing through the streets and billowing through his hoodie to chill his whole torso. He probably should have worn a coat, or another hoodie underneath this one, or thicker pants, or gloves, or a hat. He could have been much better dressed. But on the threshold of his apartment, it hadn’t felt like it would really matter. He’s not going back home to curl up in his bed and shiver until warmth seeps back into his bones, he’s not going to be flexing his fingers at the dark roof and wondering at what point is googling the symptoms of frostbite logical, he’s not going to be planning to dress warmer tomorrow.
He’ll only be cold for a little while longer.
It didn’t seem worth it to ruin any more clothes.
Hamzah sits for a long time at Humber Bridge, watching the sun set behind the clouds.
He doesn’t know why, but something in him wants to be submerged. He likes the weightlessness he feels in the water, the rush of being a part of something stronger than him.
It’s only seconds after that he decides that this is it, this is his fate, this is how he’s gonna do it.
And he jumps.
Hamzah’s never been able to find the words to explain what happened when it all goes wrong. He’s never been able to explain that gray filter, that middle distance, that overcome of feeling and the way it takes you in its palms and molds you into something you can’t recognize.
He's never been a poet, never been good with books and reading and writing like Claire. He can’t make entertaining videos without anyone else, like Chase. He’s not happy like Mandy or Martin, either. He can't even draw like his mother– make worlds from graphite and charcoal, capture memories with a pen – he honestly never thought he was good at anything.
He jumps, and this turbulent throwing of his body is the only way he would ever think to describe the way he felt day in day out as he clung to life. This is it. This is the feeling in action. And it's funny – as he swirls in the water below with no air, and his eyes squeezed shut, his arm aching something terrible, his chest aching for just one single breath, just one more , he realizes that he desperately, desperately wants to live.
He wants this life: the nature of it and the aquarium, but also the cramped car and the shuddering cold and the hard conversations. He wants Claire’s smile, and Mandy’s lulling voice, and Chase’s arm around his shoulder, and Martin’s squeezing embrace.
He wants his friends. He'd wail to them if he could breathe. He'd beg for life if the water allowed him to.
Please , he'd say, please give me one more – please – let me see that there's something else out there –
He kicks one last time, his arm screaming in pain.
Hamzah’s head breaches the surface. He coughs, hacking up salty water and trembling. He tips his chin to the side, and water spills from his mouth and lungs down and out.
When Hamzah stops coughing and begins swallowing instead of spitting water, he rights himself, eyes lidded. He is not too far from shore, and if he squints hard enough, there is someone there, shouting and waving at him. His arm is most definitely broken, and his head hurts awfully bad.
But Hamzah is alive . He is blissfully, beautifully, terribly alive .
***
And the house begins to shake
I’m tired of waiting for the walls to cave
I haven’t cried in a while
Haven’t cried in a while