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The bus seat is narrow. That's what I go with. It has to be, otherwise there's no reason for him to sit this close, shoulder pressed into mine, his thigh along my leg like space stopped existing. The bus jerks and his knee hits me, then stays there comfort-fucking-ably. I don't move. I let it stay. Probably just how the seat is. It doesn't mean anything. It's the seat. It's the seat. It's the seat.
Perhaps closing my eyes would magically fix this. Does that ever actually help anyone? Probably not. Still do it anyway.
I think, briefly, stupidly, is it easier to say something or just keep pretending this isn't happening. What would I even say. Hey, why are you sitting so close? He'd just look at me. Then what? I don't know. Hell, i couldn't say anything.
At the station I walk. Fast. Honestly so close to running. The ticket clerk doesn't look up. "One way." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. God I'm so breathy. Then his voice pops behind me like a ghost, softer. "One way." He sounds alright. That's what gets me.
Why the hell are you still here?
I walk faster. Like that's ever fixed anything. Hoping that if I keep putting distance between us we will losing track. It hasn't. I know it hasn't. But what else am I supposed to do?!
The train has two beds. I notice immediately. So does he. Honestly I just crash on it as soon as my eyes landed on that white sheet. And there Birdy goes to the floor. No single hesitation in his act. Just lowers himself down with his bag under his head like that's normal. Like sleeping on the floor of a moving train is something people just do. He curls around his backpack. Arms around it. Face against it. I don't know why would i even stare. I look away.
The train moves. I stare at the ceiling. Count cracks. Lose count. The uniform is still damp in some places. Under my arms. Along my collar. From running. From everything. It reeks of sweat and the street and whatever else happened yesterday. I'm still wearing it. We're both still wearing it. That's something I didn't think about until now. That we left without changing. Without anything. Just got on a bus and now we're here and I'm lying on this bed in clothes that feel stiff and disgusting. My stomach growling with hunger along.
Yet I keep pondering about what will happen when we go back.
School. Monday. What happens Monday? Do I just walk in? Do I sit in class? Does he sit across the room like nothing happened? Do people know? Does everyone know? How do you look at someone after you've hit them and they followed you anyway?
What do you say, no, what do you two become? Friends? Enemies? Strangers?
My parents know. My mother's face. That look. Like she didn't recognize me. Like I turned into something she didn't sign up for. My father. I don't even want to think about my father. What does he do when he sees me. Does he yell? Does he not say anything? Is that worse? The silence. The waiting. The knowing that I'm a disappointment in a way they don't even have words for yet. I was supposed to be someone. I was supposed to do things right. Get married. Have kids. Be normal. And now what. Now I'm just the son who— I don't even know how to finish that sentence.
Who what? Who likes boys. Who let a boy kiss him. Who hit him after. Who ran away with him. Who's lying on a train right now listening to him breathe while his parents probably haven't slept wondering where the hell their son is.
I think about what comes after. After Monday. After school. After all of this. Who's going to want someone like me. That's the part I keep circling back to. Who's going to look at me and see something worth staying for. If I can't be what I'm supposed to be, then what am I. Where do I go. Where do people like me even belong. I don't know any. I don't know anyone else who feels like this. Maybe there are others. Maybe they're hiding too. Maybe they're all hiding and that's just how it is. You hide or you lose everything.
And God. I keep thinking about God. What does God think. I used to pray. Not a lot. Sometimes. When things felt big. When I needed something to hold onto. I don't know if I believe. I don't know if I ever really did. But I keep thinking, if there is something out there, does it look at me and see something broken. Something wrong. Something that needs fixing. Or does it see someone who just— I don't know. I don't know what I want it to see. I just want to not feel like this. Like I'm carrying something too heavy. Like I'm wrong for existing the way I do. Like every part of me is something I have to apologize for.
I think, if I pray right now, does anyone hear it. Does it count if you're not sure. Does it count if you're asking for something you're not even allowed to want. Will God give me salvation. Will God even look at me or am I already too far gone?
His breathing changes. Slows. Evens out. He's asleep. I don't know why that makes me angry. That he can just sleep. That he can curl up on a dirty floor with his backpack and just go to sleep like none of this is happening. I can hear him snoring. I wish there were times like this when we travel together out of this world without having to overthink about the consequences. Not like this. When it's already messed up.
I stare at the ceiling. The train keeps moving. I can't sleep. I just lie there and think about Monday. About my mother. About my father. About what I'm supposed to say when I walk through the door. About whether God still listens to people like me. About whether anyone will ever love me without wanting me to be different.
We walk after that.
I don't know how long cause I stopped tracking. The road just keeps going, wide and gray, lame. Nothing on either side except green tall grass, the kind that moves when the wind hits, all at once. No cars. Maybe one or two pickups since we started. Old ones and they fucking rattle when they pass. But none of them were stopping. Why would they stop anyway? Two boys walking nowhere. Nothing to see here.
I don't have money left. That's why we're walking. Spent the last of it on the tickets. Enough for the bus. Enough for the train. That's it. Nothing left for anything else. Not even enough to get back. I didn't think about getting back. I didn't think about anything. I just bought the tickets and walked and now we're here. On this road. Walking. Because I don't have anything left to pay for a ride.
I can smell the beach already. Salty. That heavy kind that sticks into your nose. It's hot too. So hot and makes everything feel slow. Makes my uniform stick to me again even though it already dried. I feel like a grilled chicken.
I picked the beach. Why did I pick the beach? I don't even like the beach. Sand gets everywhere. Water's too cold. Or maybe I do like it. I don't remember. I don't remember what I like anymore. Do I like Birdy? I just needed somewhere to go. Anywhere. Away. Does away even exist? Because it feels like you just end up somewhere else and it feel the same.
My legs hurt. My chest hurts more. That's getting familiar. That tight thing that lives there now. When did that start. I don't remember.
"A-han."
God, spare me some time alone.
"A-han, where are we going? Can we just go home?"
I don't answer. I don't know what the answer is anyway. His voice keeps catching, he sounds tired. I notice. I wish I didn't. I wish I could stop noticing things about him. I shortened my pace.
I think about that night. The way he pushed me away, then kissed me like it didn't matter. None of it made sense. It still doesn't. I hit him. He followed me. I didn't tell him to stop. So what does that make this. What does that make me? God strongest soldier?
I keep walking. I don't have money for anything else. I don't know what else to do. I don't know anything.
Then I stop.
I don't decide to. My body just does it. Cause I genuinely had enough. Fuck. I'm tired. I'm so tired. I don't even know what I'm tired of. Him. Me. The walking. The not walking. The not knowing. All of it.
His steps went dead silence too. It's a surprise that he's not catching up beside me after all of his previous efforts.
If I turn around.....Will it fix anything? Or just make it worse. Do I even want it fixed? Is that what this is? Wanting it fixed or wanting something else. Something I don't have words for. Something I'm not supposed to want. Something that got me here in the first place.
Let's say, if I turn around then what? Then I have to look at him? Then I have to see his face, the bruises, his eyes, his annoyingly short haircuts, also whatever the hell he's thinking that he won't say? I don't want to see it. See that.
I don't want to know because I already know. I know that if I look at him I'm not going to leave. I'm going to stand there. And he's going to stand there. And nothing's going to happen. Or something's going to happen. And then what? Then we're still here. Then we're still us. Then I will hit him again and he still followed me and none of that changes.
If I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and called it leaving because I didn't have another word for it, will it feel better for both of us? But here I am. Here we are. On this road. Him behind me. Me pretending I don't know he's there though I've always known he's there. That's the whole thing isn't it?
I don't wanna turn around and face the world. My legs begin to move again.
Is that the right thing? I don't know. I don't know a single thing.
And I wish— God, I wish—
I wish I knew how to quit you.