he ate my heart

Déardaoin. Thursday.

You knew something was wrong when the Fossoway boy was quiet at choir practice. 

Thomas Fossoway, the oldest of the Fossoway boys, was always one for mischief. Not enough to cause worry—the right amount of mischief for an eight year old boy past the age of hiding behind his mother’s skirts. He could never make up his mind on what he wanted to be when he was grown up: last week he’d wanted to be a sailor. The week before, he’d wanted to be a black bear, and would hear none of how it wasn’t possible. The worst thing he’d ever done was two months ago, when he’d yanked on Abigail O’Carroll’s blond hair when she had teased him for living in a “rickety old shack”. After a conversation with his mother where she’d threatened to yank on his hair, to see how he’d like it for a change, it had never happened again. 

No, Thomas Fossoway was not who you would think of when you imagined a “quiet child”. When he walked into choir that chilly September day, he looked as though he was waiting for someone to yell at him for something he’d done. If you’d been alarmed, it had only been because you were wondering what he’d done to make him look so guilty. He did everything he was asked, and did nothing else but look at the floor, whereas the rest of the children of the choir were rambunctious as ever.

The children’s choir had been your endeavor ever since you’d arrived to the parish last spring. Here you would remain at the little parish until you were due to take your vows. Since then, you’d warmed up to many of the children and their mothers who you’d speak with after choir. 

Mothers like Rowan Fossoway, whose son was currently acting as if he was about to take a long walk off of a short pier. It was not like him at all, brewing an uncertainty in your chest. Perhaps you would leave it for today, and wait until you saw him again. Children so quickly oscillated between lively and silent. He might have had a cold. His mother might have been cross with him earlier. It could have been anything.

It was halfway through choir practice during a moment of rest that an unexpected visitor entered the room. His presence drew the attention of the children, and briefly brought your rehearsal to a screeching halt. 

“Father Duncan!”

To a certain extent, you didn’t want to fault him. It was near impossible for someone like Father Duncan to go unnoticed whenever he walked into a room, especially a room full of small children. To them, he stood as tall as an oak tree, a wondrous feat for the little ones. His warm, welcoming demeanor with them also contributed to their excitement at his entry. He was so gentle with them, so soft spoken and kind for someone as big and broad. He was like that with most everyone, you thought, stomach curling with shame and frustration.

Everyone except you. He hated you, it seemed. 

Which was a shame. You, him, and Father Lyonel were the ones who oversaw the parish. You and Lyonel got along extremely well. When Duncan arrived in the summertime, it created the strangest schism in your daily life. Duncan was a ray of light until he came face to face with you. You could see the veil of disdain drape over his face. You couldn’t pinpoint why he disliked you so, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

The little ones crowded around him immediately. It almost made you want to laugh, the sheer difference in size between him and the children. He grinned down at them, and you stood in front of the lectern, one hand crossed over the other at your front, unsure of what to do with yourself.

“Hello, children,” He said warmly once they had quieted. He was trying to get them to settle, but his smile was wide. “Now, now, calm down, all of ye.”

A moment later, he seemed to register your presence off to the side. He gave you a bland side glance, and gave a non-committal nod. “Sister.”

“Father,” You greeted awkwardly, forcing a smile, “Have you come to hear the children?”

“Aye, I have.” He gestured at the front of the room, where you had a lectern set up in front of a wall. “Will they be singing again this Sunday?”

“Yes, they will.” You turned to the little ones, smiling. “Alright, everyone, back to the front. Let’s show Father Duncan what you’ve been working on.”

After wrangling them, you turned the page on the lectern, and led them in song. They sang him two of the hymns you had been working on, and did lovely doing it. Children singing was often sweet, but could sound out of tune. You had known from the beginning that they could do well if they just worked hard, and your encouragement paid off well. It did you no good to be boastful, but there was an undeniable swell in your chest as they sang Be Thou My Vision to the priest, and their sweet voices mixed in the harmony you had arranged with them. It brought a smile to your face as you led them in song.

Duncan stayed through the rest of rehearsal. He sat in a chair in the corner, beaming at the boys and girls and brooding at you any time he had the displeasure of having to interact with him. You were used to this. The first few months, it had taken everything in you to not flinch at his rude demeanor. You had spent countless nights agonizing over why he might not enjoy your presence when he seemed to enjoy everyone else’s. He was from Cork, you’d learned. He’d never been to Sligo—there was no way he knew you or your family before either of you had arrived. There was no slight you could have identified prior to his arrival, and his distrust had been apparent since the first moment you met. 

He was a mystery. A tall, soft-spoken, hateful mystery.

Now, you took it in stride. If one strike thee on thy right cheek, turn to him also the other, Christ had insisted. And so you did, even if the wrongdoing came from a man of the cloth. You included Father Duncan in your prayers, just as you included Father Lyonel and all the members of the parish. You prayed for his deliverance and salvation at night and remained cordial during the day. It was all you could do to be a good Catholic.

 So you pushed his glowering to the back of your mind, choosing instead to beam at the children of the choir and offer firm but gentle correction. 

All the while, Thomas Fossoway remained withdrawn. You tried to get him to join into the occasional laughter in between bouts of singing, but he didn’t want to meet your eyes. He acted this way until choir was over. Some of the children walked home by themselves, some walked with their friends, and some were picked up by doting mothers. Thomas was a part of the last group, and Rowan grabbed him by the hand with a haste that could either mean she had much to do at home or that she did not wish to speak with you or Duncan. You chose to believe it was the former, and made a mental note to mention their family specifically in your prayers that night.

“They sound lovely.” 

You turned, eyes wide. Duncan had crossed the room. Closer, but still keeping a distance from you. You managed a nod, acknowledging his compliment. 

“They’ve worked hard,” You said, “I only guided them along.”

He pursed his lip. “Guidance is a funny thing. It walks a fine line between the gentle and the harsh, wouldn’t you think?”

You blinked. “I do not push the children further than they can handle, Father. They’re only little, but I know they can accomplish something that will make them proud of their hard work.”

He stared at you like he didn’t believe you. After a beat, he stood up straight, towering over you more than he already was. “Do you remember Colossians? Chapter three, verses twenty-three to twenty five?”

You thought for a moment, before nodding. “Whatsoever you do, do it from the heart, as to the Lord, and not to men: Knowing that you shall receive of the Lord the reward of inheritance. Serve ye the Lord Christ…” You paused, trying to remember the rest of the passage. “F-for he that doth wrong, shall receive for that which he hath done wrongfully: and there is no respect of persons with God.”

He nodded in turn. “Do not promote pride to the children, Sister,” He huffed, “It does not serve them well.”

Frowning, you opened your mouth, hoping to retort. He was gone before you could, slipping past you and out the door. He left you alone, incensed at the accusation. There was a difference in pride in one’s self versus the efforts of hard work paying off, you wanted to say. Moreso when it involved serving Christ. How could he not see that was what you were doing?

A frustrated sigh left your lips, leaving the room. Your fingers twitched, and against your better judgment, you reached for the box in the pocket of your tunic as you walked toward an empty hallway. You would ask for forgiveness later, you thought bitterly, grabbing one of the cigarettes and holding it between your lips. 

The smoke filled your lungs as you inhaled and danced around you as you exhaled. The dimly lit hallway felt a little less lonely as you imagined a friend within its coils. Present, listening.

“God is listening,” You mumbled to yourself.

Much to your dismay, you had a fleeting thought—is he really?

Dé Domhnaigh. Sunday.

It started after the evening mass. 

The weather had been the same all week. Hazy. Wet. Nippy. 

The evening mass had been uneventful. Father Lyonel’s sermon was well received. The children of the choir sang well. You and Father Duncan handed out the Eucharist to those who approached. After the service, wives approached you to ask for prayers for their children and husbands. You complimented the mothers of your little choir members, and made small talk about their schools, their homes, parish events.

Thomas Fossoway kept a wide berth, holding his youngest sister in his arms. His mother and father were at the altar for the Virgin Mary, deep in prayer.

From across the chapel, you could see him speaking with other members of the congregation, shaking hands, trying his best to make conversation. He had the nervous smile of a man trying to figure out how best to pet a dog he had just met.

“What do you think of him?” The mother smiled, looking back at him. “You’d not expect someone that big to be so gentle, like.”

Forcing a smile—though not too hard—you attempted an air of agreement. “I’m sure he is, but I’ve not gotten the chance to know him well enough just yet. We’ve both been busy, is all.”

That’s only a half truth, you thought, he hates me.

The woman, now shifting back and forth in an attempt to shush the fussing child in her arms, beamed. The woman next to her kept her green eyes trained on the tall priest. “Busy with studying, then? You must be so excited to finally take your vows.”

At this, your smile turned genuine. “I’m counting down the days until January.” 

Finally, the other woman seemed to return to the conversation. She looked back at you, but when she spoke, she gave no indication she cared about what had just been mentioned.

“Is he something of a night owl, Sister?” She asked. Your smile disappeared as the topic returned to Father Duncan. You tilted your head, furrowing your brow.

“As far as I know, no, but I don’t typically see him after we’ve cleaned up after mass,” You explained, “Then it’s time for me to compline and go to bed. Why, Mrs. Connelly?”

She shook her head. “David said that when he was walking home from work last week, he saw someone who looked like Father Duncan out for a walk in the wee hours. He wasn’t sure whether it was really him or not, but David said he was rather tall, like. I was just wondering why he’d be out so late.”

Your eyes flickered towards Duncan, who was waving off some parishioners as they walked towards the door. The crowd was beginning to dwindle—likely off to supper or to prepare the children for bed. You frowned, looking back at Mrs. Connelly.

“There’s not many as tall as he, but I don’t think he’d just up and leave the rectory. Could it have been someone else he saw?”

Mrs. Connelly nodded, eyes narrow in a manner that indicated she didn’t fully believe you. “Maybe... Well, Sister, I must be off. David has the children waiting over there and they’ve got school in the morning. Have a good night, and God bless you.”

“God be with you, Mrs. Connelly,” You bade drily as she began to walk away.

The rest of the crowd shuffled out of the chapel, and soon it was just you and the two priests. You exchanged pleasantries, complimenting Lyonel’s sermon, and him thanking you both for your help.

You smiled in return, before pointing towards some chairs that needed readjusting. “Of course. Now, should we—“

The door to the parish opened, the sound echoing across the now empty space. Both of you looked up to see a familiar man making his way down towards the altar. His face was somber and almost bewildered.

“Fathers. Sister. I’m sorry for the interruption.”

You shook your head. “No worries, Mr. Fossoway. Did you forget so—“

Raymun Fossoway waved his hands dismissively, before turning to Lyonel. “No. Father, I need a blessing performed in my home.”

A blessing. Not uncommon. But not typically requested with such an urgency that it shifted the air around you all. Certainly not when you knew Raymun and his wife had been in the same home since their eldest son had been born nine years ago. You recalled Thomas’s behavior and looked at Lyonel, who contemplated the combination of Raymun’s demeanor and request. Duncan cleared his throat awkwardly.

“…Of course, Raymun,” Father Lyonel finally declared, albeit reluctantly, “I can pass by tomorrow when—“

“No,” Raymun sounded more insistent now. The fear in his eyes shone like that of a cornered animal. “Now, Father. Please.”

“Is everything alright, Mr. Fossoway?” You interjected. “Are Rowan and the baby—“

“My wife and the child are fine as can be, under the circumstances, Sister,” Raymun interrupted, “It’s the house. Something… There’s something in it.”

“Some… thing?” Duncan asked. Raymun nodded, eyes verging on frantic. 

“I don’t know what it is. I couldn’t tell you. Rowan—she didn’t believe me at first. But we’ve all since resorted to sleeping in the baby’s room. It’s the one room where it doesn’t follow.”

Unease rippled through the now empty church. You placed your hand in your tunic pocket, reaching for the rosary beads placed inside. Duncan clenched his jaw, and Lyonel frowned. 

“You believe it to be a spirit?” Lyonel asked, looking between the three of you. “When did it begin?”

Lyonel’s hands squeezed into fists at his sides. He shook his head. “A few weeks ago. The boys went playing in the woods as they always do when their chores are done. They came back in tears. S-said something spoke to them. Rowan thought it was all nonsense, just the children’s imagination acting up.”

“And then?” You asked. His face darkened in the candlelight. 

“Things started moving to where they shouldn’t be. The children started waking up, saying something was in their room. Then… Then I heard it. A voice, in the walls. Saying all sorts of hideous things. Things I can’t be saying here, in the Lord’s house. And then Rowan heard it. We haven’t seen it. But we know it’s there. Waiting. Getting ready.”

The air in the church felt colder now, and you held back a shiver. You chose to bless yourself instead, making the sign of the cross with one hand, gripping your rosary in the other.

The three of you, still at the foot of the altar, exchanged a look. A moment later, Lyonel spoke. His tone left no room for argument.

“Sister Y/N, would you be so kind as to fetch a brown calfskin leather bag from my office in the rectory. It should be in the second drawer of the desk. Father Duncan… let us say a prayer with the Fossoways, and all of us will return to his home to perform the blessing.”

The Fossoway house was at the end of a cobblestone path, a modest home just big enough for a family of newly six. Rowan had given birth to the youngest almost two months ago, and had been members of the parish since before their oldest was born. The entirety of the family led you back to their home, Rowan holding hands with Rupert, her second youngest, while bouncing baby Kerry on her hip. The other two walked hand in hand, neither of them meeting your eyes. 

From outside, the house looked normal. Abigail O’Carroll was not entirely wrong when she told Thomas Fossoway that he lived in a rickety old shack. The house was old, and beginning to ever so slightly lean to the left. For six, it was cramped. Three boys to a bedroom where they slept on the floor. The nursery. Rowan and Raymun’s room. A small kitchen with a fireplace and a small dining table. 

The moment you crossed the threshold, it felt as if someone breathed dread into you. It settled over you like an exhale, blanketing your being in a manner more suffocating than comforting. Perhaps it was how convinced Raymun seemed to be, how he seemed to cower back behind Lyonel and Duncan, and how the children seemed to cower behind him and Rowan. You stood at Lyonel’s side, peering around the house, now dark as night fell. The darkness surrounding you immediately registered to you as different. You were not one to entertain the idea of spirits or ghouls, but everything about tonight felt fundamentally wrong. 

As soon as the sensation rolled down your spine, you felt your body lock up. This was some deep animal instinct, something primal, that was causing your limbs to stiffen and telling you to run the other way. Out of the corner of his eye, Duncan visibly tensed. Lyonel crossed himself, but his posture remained 

“Boys.” Lyonel’s voice was dangerously quiet. “What did you do—that day in the forest?”

The three of them were silent. Rowan scowled. “Tell him. Tell Father Lyonel what you told me, boys.”

Thomas’s lip wobbled. James seemed to curl in on himself. Sworn to silence, it seemed. It was little Rupert who cracked first. The youngest of the boys, only 5. He got very quiet, before saying, “Someone spoke to us. We didn’t see him, but he asked if we wanted to play a game.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Lyonel sighed. “Mary, Mother of God. And you said yes?”

“We wanted to play. He said he would chase us. And he did, and it was fun. But now it’s not fun no more. He didn’t stop chasing.”

Lyonel made a soft noise of disgust. His lip curled a little. “Oh,” he tutted, “Oh, I hated that. Never do that again.”

Rupert nodded, eyes welling with tears. Rowan growled at Thomas and James. “Boys.”

They nodded in agreement, and mumbled similar promises. They seemed as ashamed as they did afraid. You remained silent the entire time, trying to keep your breathing steady. 

“Sister Y/N,” Lyonel murmured, turning to you, “Stay here with the family. Pray a rosary with them. Duncan and I will bless each room in the house.”

He and Duncan parted, heading for the boys’ bedroom. You sat with the Fossoways at their dinner table, at Rowan’s left. The moment you pulled out your rosary from your tunic pocket, the darkness seemed to deepen. If any of them noticed, they didn’t say anything, and neither did you. Why would you? They were terrified enough. You would not fill their heads with more dread, would not hand them more fabric to cut their nightmares from. You wanted so badly to believe there was nothing there. 

So you would believe it, you resolved. The boys had overactive imaginations. What child didn’t imagine monsters under the bed? Rowan and Raymun were likely tired. Kerry was two months old, and they had three other rambunctious children to look after. This had to be part of the reasoning behind it. Never mind the creeping darkness. Yes. Yes, this was the work of vivid childish nightmares and parental exhaustion. 

You licked your lips, throat feeling dry. “I… Close your eyes. Let us pray.”

The sign of the cross. An Apostles’ Creed. Three Hail Marys. You let your eyes fall shut, leading the family in prayer. This was a familiar ritual of yours. The only difference was that tonight, you were sitting at the Fossoways’ dining room instead of in your little room in the rectory. Instead of silence, you could hear the family praying along with you. At your side, Rowan’s breathing was a bit loud. You were not alone in your prayer tonight, joined by this little family and their soft prayers. 

An Our Father. You began the First Mystery. Ten Hail Marys. Rowan’s breathing grew louder. Your eyes remained closed. A Glory Be. The Second Mystery. You could hear Duncan and Lyonel in the room right over, murmuring prayers as they blessed its corners with holy water. God and Christ to protect the members of the family. Children of God, lambs led by their shepherd. Ten Hail Marys. A Glory Be. You kept the rhythm, words flying from your lips like second nature. You certainly couldn’t tell Rowan her breathing was too loud right in the middle of your prayers.

And then her breathing grew closer. The Third Mystery. Ten more Hail Marys. Duncan and Lyonel shuffled into the next room in the distance. The devil was not welcome in this home. Not now, not ever. Your grip over the rosary beads tightened, face scrunching as you tried to pray this darkness away. Your shoulders had risen up to your ears since you’d started. Why was Rowan breathing so loud? A Glory Be. Why did it feel like she was leaning closer to you?

The Fourth Mystery. You could not take it anymore. You opened your eyes, ready to shift away from her. You began your first Hail Mary. Your eyes landed on her copper hair. 

She had not moved, glued to the chair next to you. Her eyes were closed, lips pursed in preparation to follow you. The breathing against your cheek did not stop. The prayer died in your throat, eyes widening, and your fingers went cold. 

Silence. Other than the breathing. You looked to the left. Christ, those heaving puffs of air that came from no one at all, but still landed on your cheek, hot and insistent. Rowan’s brow furrowed, and her eyes cracked open. 

She looked at you, saw the horrified expression on your face. Immediately, she looked behind her, wondering if you were seeing something behind her. When she saw nothing, she looked back at you, looking gravely concerned. You shook your head desperately, before looking down. You began praying again. It was all you could do.

You forced yourself through the Fourth Mystery. Whatever it was, it trained its breath on the apple of your cheek, wet, hot, rancid. Beads squeezed between your fingers in one hand, blunt bitten fingernails digging into the palm of the other. This could not be happening. Whatever hysteria had taken the Fossoways, it had now taken hold of you too. Burning. Heating your cheeks while the rest of you was ice cold. Somewhere, in another one of the rooms, you could hear Duncan and Lyonel.

You finished the final Glory Be as the breath moved from your cheek to the back of your neck. Never touching, never landing. Always hovering close enough to disturb and disrupt. You took a shaky breath as you began your fifth and final stretch of Hail Marys, and realized that whatever it was, it was not touching you because of your prayer. These beads, the strength of your savior, was what was keeping it at bay. And when the two priests entered this room, simultaneously blessing the room as you continued leading the Fossoways, the breathing got lighter.

The unease began to fade, unlocking your shoulders and knuckles. Hearing Lyonel and Duncan nearby and knowing you were near the end of your prayer had you settling back into your body. The air no longer felt heavy or oppressive. When you finished the prayer and you opened your eyes, the darkness did not seem as foreboding. The candlelight seemed to stretch further, and your body fully relaxed. 

All of you, Duncan and Lyonel included, did one final sign of the cross to close out the prayer. Then, Duncan and Lyonel went around the table, blessing each member of the family.

“Please let us know if anything changes,” Duncan said softly, “We’re happy to come back.” 

Raymun gave a sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. The dark circles under his eyes were much more prominent in this light. He gave Duncan a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Father. We’ll let you know.”

“I must say,” Lyonel added, “I didn’t feel anything. The house felt a bit dark, yes, but I didn’t… I felt no presence here.”

“Have you dealt with these presences before, Father?” Rowan asked, a current of skepticism beneath her curiosity. Lyonel tilted his head back and forth, seemingly unsure of how to answer. He licked his lips, before giving the woman an earnest look.

“When I was sent to Rome,” he began, “I witnessed the exorcism of a young woman. I did not participate. But I learned things about Christ and Satan that week that I would not have learned in any ordinary seminary. Things I will not explain now, when your family is this… vulnerable. But I did not feel those things here tonight. And our work here tonight will hopefully expel anything that remains.”

She didn’t respond, but her features eased ever so slightly. You wondered how much of it she believed. You did not know how much of it you believed. At his side, Duncan said nothing. His eyes were trained downwards, brows creased. He seemed deep in thought, mulling Lyonel’s words over. Then, he asked Lyonel to speak privately. 

Lyonel turned to look at you and Duncan. “Wait for me outside,” he said, “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You bade the family goodnight, offering Thomas a hopeful smile as you exited. You weren’t sure who needed it more, him or yourself. He didn’t smile back. 

The two of you waited in mostly silence. The wind was strong enough to whip at the mantle draped over your head. You were glad you’d left the box of cigarettes under your pillow in your room. You’d have gone through two the second you stepped out and started on a third, nerves still whipping around your chest. You were staring straight ahead, past the Fossoways’ gate and towards the path that had led you here. Lost in thought, you didn’t notice Duncan staring at you.

Lyonel had several years of clerical training ahead of you. He had trained in the finest seminaries in Rome, and by virtue of his being a man, was permitted to participate in spiritual exercises you would have been barred from otherwise. If Lyonel had felt nothing in the house… 

You swallowed the lump in your throat. The human mind was fickle, especially when afraid. It could have been anything.

“...Are you alright?”

Slowly, you turned to look at him. He was looking at you with the same hardness in his ocean-colored eyes, but the usual downward curl in his brow was absent. You would almost call the expression indifference. Asking only because he had to. Not because he cared. You pressed your lips together, before offering a small smile. 

“Fine, thank you. Just a bit hard to see the whole family affected so.”

He nodded once. He looked back at the house, then back at you. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I did not know Father Lyonel was so… versed in these kinds of matters.”

You hummed, trying to remember what he had said. “It was a very brief time when he was in Rome, or so he’s told me. I believe they offered him an exorcism apprenticeship, but he said no.”

Duncan blinked. “It’s a highly selective path. Why would he say no?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

He said nothing. You kept your silence until he broke it again. “He didn’t feel anything.”

You nodded. “I… I trust his word,” You mumbled, looking at a patch of grass next to your feet. Duncan hummed non-committally. The mantle blocked your view as you looked down. You didn’t see him open his mouth, before gritting his teeth. 

Finally, he closed his mouth. He frowned, putting his hands on his hips. “Aye. As do I.”

 Lyonel and Raymun came out a few minutes later. “I cannot thank you enough for what the three of you have done tonight. Even if you felt nothing, Father Lyonel. Your prayers are reassurance enough.”

“Sometimes, prayer is the biggest shield,” Lyonel told him. 

The walk back to the rectory was quiet. You walked behind them, trying to silently talk yourself down from the unease. When Duncan tried to speak, Lyonel cut in.

“Let us discuss this tomorrow, Father Duncan,” He said, “After tonight, we could all do with some prayer and peace.”

His decision did little to soothe you.

When you returned to your room, you took off your mantle and your habit. You undid your hair, which you had tied up to be out of the way this morning. The tension releasing from your scalp brought a sigh from your lips, shoulders finally dropping. You hadn’t realized how drained you were.

You bathed, then brushed out your hair. When you said your prayers, you took extra care to include each member of the Fossoway family by name in your intentions. Raymun. Rowan. Thomas. James. Rupert. Baby Kerry. You prayed for their safety and salvation. You prayed for their peace and protection. It wasn’t until after you had finished, and gotten under the covers, that you realized you had forgotten to include yourself.

Maybe that was why it came to you.

When sleep finally found you, something came to you in a dream. You could not say what it was. Perhaps it was something you had carried back to this room. Perhaps it existed deep within you long before tonight. It could have even been both. 

Whatever it was, wherever it came from, the memory would be gone by morning. What would remain was the sensation, the ache, the emptiness a drunk feels when deprived of the bottle. It had black, bloodied talons that scratched at your breasts and left indents in your thighs. White, spiky hair. Wicked violet eyes. A long, silky, forked tongue that reminded you of the snake’s in the Garden of Eden, pulling Eve towards perdition. One that lapped at your tears before it coiled around your own, muffling your pleas for more. 

And a voice. A voice soft and smooth on one side, that so quickly turned jagged and cutting as your eyes rolled back into your head. That growled from behind grinning, too-sharp teeth, words that had been whispered against your skin at the Fossoway house. You had heard them then, jumbled amongst prayer, but only understood them now, tangled together as he placed them at the base of your throat:

Let me in. 

You want me.

Let me in. 

I want you.

On the floor above yours, in a room down the hall from Lyonel, Duncan also dreamed. But he did not dream of sins of the flesh, brought on by something born of hellfire. No. That would come later, though he had no manner of knowing it now.

Duncan dreamed of a boy.

A little boy in the woods, peering from behind a tree trunk. Draped in a scratchy, olive colored tunic, with pale eyes and no hair. He looked afraid as Duncan approached. As if Duncan would reprimand him, or worse. A look Duncan had worn at this boy’s age, once. He felt his chest ache at the sight. 

After what he had endured, he had vowed never to lay hands on anyone. Duncan raised his hands, and knelt a few feet from the tree. It seemed to be dusk. The woods were covered in fog, and tinged in a pale, blue light that evoked early mornings.

“You have nothing to fear from me, lad.”

The boy shook his head, shrinking into himself. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. As if he were worried he would wake someone. “It’s not you I fear, sir.”

Duncan froze. “Who, then?”

“He’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

The forest darkened. The boy’s eyes widened. 

The last thing he said before fading in front of Duncan’s eyes, before the darkness swallowed the forest, before swallowing Duncan himself, made the hair on Duncan’s neck stand straight up.

“Evil is afoot.”

thank you for reading, i hope you liked it!!! if you'd like to be included in future updates for this fic, pls let me know <3 please note: i will not tag you if you are a blank/ageless blog.

september 3, 1985

new girl transferred today. junior, like us. you walked into homeroom twelve minutes late with your bag strap sliding off your shoulder and sat down in the empty desk by the window and i forgot what mr. hendricks was saying. i still don't remember. it might have been about the civil war. it might have been about literally anything. you glanced out of the window, sunlight golden on you, and opened your notebook. i missed twenty minutes of american history.

this is probably not important enough to write down.

i'm not sure why i did.

september 8, 1985

i have three friends. bobby, terrence, and the library.

i'm not popular. i'm the thing that happens to popular when you drain all the charisma out of it and replace it with advanced calculus and the inability to make eye contact. bobby got the face AND the personality. i got the face and a brain that won't stop noticing details nobody asked for and a body that flinches when people touch it without warning.

identical twins. completely different experiences of being alive.

bobby walks into a room and the room lights up around him. i walk into a room and can't figure out where to stand. people talk and i miss the cues. the pauses where i'm supposed to laugh, the shifts in tone that signal a joke, the invisible dance of human interaction that everyone else learned naturally, and i'm still studying from the outside like a foreign language i can read but can't speak.

most people forget i'm in the room. teachers mix us up. girls look through me to find him. i've been called "bobby's brother" so many times it might as well be printed on my birth certificate.

i envy him sometimes. the effortlessness of it. the way connection comes to him like breathing. for me every conversation is a translation exercise: hear the words, decode the meaning, calculate the appropriate response, deliver it, check the face for signs i got it wrong. and it's so exhausting.

the library doesn't require any of it. the library doesn't care if i'm awkward.

september 11, 1985

her name is—

actually, i don't think i should write your name in this. just in case bobby finds it despite the very clear warning on the cover. i know you. that's enough.

bobby talked to you first because bobby talks to everyone first. you were sitting alone at lunch and he just walked over and sat down and said something that made you laugh (this startled, bright, involuntary sound) and by the time i got to the table you were already part of the group.

terrence likes you. bobby likes you. everybody likes you. you're warm in a way i don't have a word for. not loud-warm. just warm.

you said hi to me and i said hi back and that was the entire interaction.

i've been replaying it for three hours.

september 17, 1985

you sat next to me in calculus today. not because you had to. the desk was open and you chose it from three others, and sat down and smiled at me. you said, "hey, benny" like we've known each other for years.

benny.

nobody calls me benny.

september 29, 1985

you asked me to help you with calc after school. we sat at the kitchen table for an hour and a half and you leaned into my shoulder while i walked you through derivatives. your hair smelled like vanilla and you looked at me like i'd performed a miracle when you finally got it right.

nobody looks at me like that. bobby gets those looks. terrence gets those looks. i get the polite nod. the strained, patient smile. the "oh, you're bobby's brother" face that i've learned to expect.

you looked at me like i was a person who knew things you wanted to know. like the knowing mattered. like i was someone and not just adjacent to my twin.

i am in so much trouble.

october 14, 1985

you call me brendan. full name. sometimes benny when you're teasing. never BB, which is what everyone else calls me. never "the other twin." never "bobby's brother."

brendan.

i could live off the way you say it for a very long time.

october 22, 1985

kyle weber called me a freak in the hallway today. not the first time. i was carrying a stack of AP textbooks and he shoulder-checked me and they went everywhere and he laughed and said, "watch it, freak." i was on my knees picking up books and trying to disappear into the linoleum.

and then you appeared out of nowhere. i don't know where you came from. one second i was alone on the floor and the next you were crouching beside me, stacking my books, and then you stood up and turned to kyle. you said something so quiet i couldn't hear it and his face went white. paper white. he looked at you and then at me and then he stalked away and he hasn't spoken to me since.

i asked you what you said to him. you handed me my books and shrugged. "i told him if he touches you again i'll make sure the whole school knows he cried during the sex ed video in freshman year."

"...did he?"

"oh, absolutely. terrence told me. the power of information, benny."

and you linked your arm through mine and walked me to class.

people touch me and i flinch. always have. bobby's arm around my shoulder makes my skin crawl. terrence's back-slaps make me clench my jaw. casual contact (a stranger's elbow on the bus, a classmate brushing past in the hallway) registers in my body as a low-grade alarm.

i don't know why. i've never known why. my skin has always been too loud for other people's hands.

you linked your arm through mine and i didn't flinch. i didn't tense. i didn't have to override the instinct because the instinct wasn't there. your touch landed on my skin and my whole nervous system went quiet. warm. calm. like coming inside after hours in the cold and standing next to a fire and feeling the tightness in your muscles release one strand at a time.

you're protective of me. you took one look at the quiet twin who can't make eye contact and decided he was yours to defend and nobody asked you to and you did it anyway.

i have never felt warm the way i feel warm when you do this. like the warmth isn't just temperature but a person. like i've been standing outside in the cold my whole life and you opened the door to a warm house.

november 2, 1985

you found me in the library during a free period. everyone else was at the pep rally. i was reading and you sat down across from me and said "i don't really do pep rallies" and opened your own book and we sat there in silence for an hour.

i've never been quiet with another person and had it feel like a gift before.

silence with other people feels like a failure. like i'm supposed to be filling the space and i can't find the right thing to fill it with. every pause is a question i'm getting wrong. with you the silence felt like a room we were sharing on purpose.

the noise in my head (the constant humming calculation of how to be a person in front of other people) it stops when you're near. just stops. like a machine powering down. and underneath the silence there's this calm i don't have a name for. this sense that i can stop performing and just exist and you won't find the existing strange or off-putting.

when you left you squeezed my shoulder and said, "this was nice, benny."

i put my forehead on the table and stayed there for a while.

november 9, 1985

a thing i've never told anyone:

i hate being touched, and i am desperate to be touched. both at the same time. all the time.

other people's hands on me feel like static. wrong pressure, wrong temperature. i pull away from hugs. i stiffen under friendly arms. mom stopped trying to hold my hand when i was eleven because i kept pulling free without meaning to and the hurt on her face was worse than the contact.

but when you touch me (your hand on my arm, your head on my shoulder, your fingers fixing my collar) my body does the opposite thing. it leans. toward you. into you. like i've been cold for sixteen years and you're the first source of heat and the relief of it is so overwhelming i could cry.

i want more. always more. every touch you give me i hoard and replay and it's never enough. i want your hand in my hair. your arms around my waist. your forehead against mine. i want to be held by you until the static stops and it only stops with you and i don't understand why.

i don't think i need to understand why. i just need more.

november 15, 1985

i can see it happening. you and bobby. the way you orbit each other is starting to change shape.

the group hangs out and i watch your eyes find him across the room. i watch his find you. there's a gravity forming between you two that everyone can feel and nobody's named yet but they will. terrence already calls you bobby's girl behind your back and you're not, not yet, but the "yet" is so, so heavy.

you light up when he walks in. i know that brightness because i feel it when you walk in and i have to look away before anyone sees.

you're going to end up with bobby. everyone in this school can see the shape of it forming. bobby and the new girl. the twin everybody notices and the girl everybody likes.

i'm being dramatic. it's only been two months. i barely know you.

except i do. i know you hate the crusts on sandwiches but eat them anyway because wasting food makes you feel guilty. i know you hum when you're concentrating and you don't realise you're doing it and the song is never one i recognise. i know you bite your bottom lip when you're nervous and the left side harder than the right.

i know you. i've been paying attention since september.

i need to stop.

december 19, 1985

christmas party at terrence's. you wore a red sweater too big for you and had a stupid reindeer pin on your collar. bobby was doing his thing. arm around you, charming and bright, making the room laugh. i watched you lean into him. two bodies learning how to fit together.

you found me hiding in the kitchen and bumped your hip against mine with a crooked smile. "you're hiding."

"i'm making a drink."

"you're hiding. come back out. i miss you."

you said i miss you and i'd been in the other room for ten minutes.

you dragged me back by my sleeve and sat me down next to you and kept your hand on my knee for the rest of the night. i don't think you noticed you were doing it.

i noticed nothing else.

january 9, 1986

i've started dreading the question. the one bobby and terrence throw around like a football. "so when are you gonna get a girlfriend, bennett?" bobby grins when he says it. means it lovingly. doesn't know the answer is a slow knife.

terrence is worse. "bro there are girls literally lining up for the bobby franklin face and you're just... sitting there. reading. with that face. it's criminal!"

i laugh it off. they laugh. everyone laughs. good old brendan. hopeless with girls. still a virgin. probably going to be a virgin forever because he can't string two sentences together in front of a pretty girl.

except that's not it. that's not it at all.

something is wrong with me.

i can't find anyone attractive. i've tried. jenny park is objectively beautiful and when she talked to me at lunch i felt nothing. matt from chem lab is objectively beautiful and when he sat next to me i felt nothing. the magazine under bobby's bed that he thinks i don't know about—nothing.

my body doesn't respond to people. it doesn't want anyone. i look at classmates the way i look at furniture. vague acknowledgment that they exist. no heat. no pull. no interest.

except you.

you walk into a room and every nerve ending in my body lights up. you touch my arm and my skin hums for an hour. you lean into my shoulder and i stop breathing. you, exclusively. only you. like my body was made with a single setting and the setting is you and there's no alternative use.

i don't know what this means. i don't know if this is normal.

i'm really scared it isn't.

march 8, 1986

bobby asked you out today.

he told me first. came into my room and sat on my bed and said "i'm gonna ask her" and his voice was trying to hide the fact he was scared. going casual, going loose, like if he holds the words lightly enough they won't be able to hurt him. and i knew what he was really asking. because dad is still fresh. the cheating. the years of lies, mom finding out, the divorce that split the house in half.

bobby was fourteen when he decided love was the thing that wrecks you. swore he'd never open that door. never let anyone close enough to do what dad did to mom.

and now he wants to try. for you.

he deserves this. after everything dad did, after watching his ability to trust get gutted by a man who was supposed to teach him how to love, bobby deserves someone who makes him brave enough to try.

i told him to go for it. meant it.

he came back an hour later. grinning so wide his face couldn't hold it. you said yes.

of course you said yes. you've been saying yes to bobby since the day you sat down at our lunch table.

i hugged him. told him congratulations. meant it.

went to my room. closed the door. sat on the floor with my back against the bed and stared at the wall until my eyes ached.

march 22, 1986

movies. bobby and you, me and terrence. your first group outing as a couple.

bobby had his arm around you. you had your head on his shoulder. you shared popcorn. your leg was pressed against mine the whole film. probably because the seats were small. i didn't move.

i should have moved.

april 5, 1986

you had a fight with your mom. showed up at our house at 10 pm, crying. bobby wasn't home.

you stood on the porch and i opened the door and your face crumpled and you blurted out, "is it ok if i just sit with you for a while?"

i made you tea. you talked and i listened. after an hour you ran out of words and leaned sideways and put your head on my shoulder and fell asleep.

you slept for two hours. your hand curled in the fabric of my shirt. your breathing slow and deep. i sat perfectly still. did not adjust my position even when my arm went completely numb. i would have let my arm fall off before disturbing you.

bobby came home at midnight. "thanks for taking care of my girl, man."

my girl.

the dent where your head rested stayed warm for a long time after you left.

april 12, 1986

short entry.

you fixed the collar of my shirt in the hallway today. just reached up and folded it down. your knuckles brushing my neck. "there. can't have you walking around looking rumpled, benny."

i can still feel your knuckles. four hours later. a stripe of contact burned into the side of my throat.

june 18, 1986

pool party at terrence's. you were in a bikini.

i'm not going to describe it. i'm going to acknowledge that you were in a bikini and that i spent four hours in a california swimming pool and was never warm. because all my blood had relocated to the problem of not looking at you and the secondary problem growing in my swim trunks from the failure of the first problem.

you asked me to put sunscreen on your back. i did it. my hands were steady. nobody watching could have told that the inside of my head was a five-alarm fire.

"thanks, benny." and you went back to the pool and bobby threw you in. you screamed and laughed and i excused myself to the bathroom and put my head between my knees.

august 30, 1986

senior year. last year of being in the same building as you every day.

bobby and you are solid. you're good together. he opens up around you in ways he doesn't with anyone else. you soften him. you make his edges less defensive. when he's with you, bobby is almost the person he'd be if dad hadn't shattered his faith that the people who love you will stay.

i want to be selfless about this. the good brother. the one who steps aside and means it.

i'm not that person.

i love you. i love you and it's getting worse. it was supposed to fade. crushes fade. this isn't fading. this is setting foundations, pouring concrete into the ground floor of my chest and building upward.

september 14, 1986

bobby made a joke today at dinner. mom was asking about girls at school and bobby grinned and elbowed me and said, "bennett here is saving himself. for what, we're not sure. science, probably."

everyone laughed. mom. bobby. even terrence, who was over for dinner.

i laughed too. good old brendan. the virgin. the nerd. probably going to lose it to a textbook.

i went upstairs and sat on my bed and thought: there is something seriously wrong with me. because i'm seventeen and i've never kissed anyone and i don't WANT to kiss anyone. i look at every other person in my school and my body is silent. flat. dead. no heat, no curiosity, no pull. and then you walk into a room and i can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips and my mouth goes dry and i want to put my hands on you so badly my joints ache with it.

it's only you. it has only ever been you. and the exclusivity of it terrifies me because what if this is broken? what if i'm wired wrong? what if the reason i can't want anyone else is because something in me got stuck, got fixed in place the day you sat down in homeroom, and it will never unstick?

what if i'm going to want you, only you, for the rest of my life?

what if i already know the answer?

october 31, 1986

halloween. you dressed as an alien. green face paint, antennae that kept falling sideways. you asked me what i was and i said "a serial killer, they look like everyone else" and you laughed so hard you doubled over and grabbed my arm.

"brendan that's the funniest thing you've ever said. you have to say that to everyone who asks."

so i did, and people laughed. because you told me to deliver the line and so i did and the fact that people laughed at my joke felt good but the fact that you gave me the joke felt like being handed a lit candle in a dark room.

you fixed my hair at one point. reached up and pushed a strand off my forehead. casual. meaningless to you. your fingertips grazed my temple and i can still feel it hours later. a warm line where your hand was.

november 8, 1986

some senior from the baseball team cornered me after school. not kyle, a new one. shoved me into the lockers and called me a faggot because apparently reading in public is a sexual orientation now.

i didn't tell anyone. didn't need to.

you found out anyway. i don't know how. terrence, probably.

you didn't say anything to me about it, but two days later the senior apologised. to my face. in the hallway. with stiff, terrified demeanour. an angel of wrath had informed him of the consequences of future behaviour.

i asked you what you did.

"nothing." you were doing your homework, not looking at me. "he just had a change of heart."

"a change of heart."

"people grow, benny."

you're terrifying when you want to be, and i'm so in love with you i could die.

november 21, 1986

a guy at terrence's party wouldn't leave you alone. i don't know his name. some friend of a friend from out of town. he kept touching your arm after you pulled away. kept leaning into your space. you smiled politely and shifted sideways, and he followed.

bobby was across the room with a group of guys smoking something he shouldn't be and didn't see it. and you did that thing you do. that swallowing thing. that "it's fine, i can handle it" thing, and i watched your shoulders tighten, your smile going strained, and my vision narrowed.

i don't remember crossing the room. i don't remember what i said.

i remember his face. the way his expression shifted when he looked at me. i'm used to people looking through me, looking past me. this was different. this was a person looking at me and seeing a locked door they did not want to open.

i don't know what i said. that should scare me. it doesn't.

you found me in the kitchen after. leaned against the counter next to me. didn't ask what happened. just knocked your shoulder against mine and said "my hero" in that teasing, soft voice and i felt the anger drain out of me so fast it left me lightheaded.

but it's still in there. i felt it. a cold, patient, completely calm willingness to do damage if anyone puts their hands on you again. it doesn't feel like rage. rage is hot and loud. that's bobby's territory.

this is different. this is a door i didn't know i had, and behind it is a version of me that would do very quiet, very permanent things to protect you.

i don't know what to do with that information. so i'm putting it here.

december 1, 1986

i hate this

why can't i just be normal

everyone around me is dating. kissing. losing their virginity in backseats and bedrooms and talking about it at lunch like it's a rite of passage i keep failing to reach.

and i sit there and i listen and i feel nothing. no envy for the act itself. only this hollow awareness that i'm watching a movie everyone else is in and i'm still in the audience.

bobby asked me last week if i'd kissed anyone yet. gentle about it, for once. no joke. just "hey man, you doing okay? you know it's fine if you haven't, right?" and the kindness of it made it worse because he was being a good brother and i couldn't tell him the truth.

the truth is that there is one person i want to kiss until my lips go raw, and she's dating you and every other mouth on earth repulses me and i don't know why i'm built this way. i can't talk to anyone about it because the answer ("i'm not attracted to anyone except my twin brother's girlfriend") sounds like a confession that would get me committed.

what is wrong with me? genuinely. is this a disorder? is there a name for wanting one person so completely that everyone else might as well be furniture?

is this what love is or is this what obsession is and how do you tell the difference when you're eighteen and you've never been touched before

december 24, 1986

christmas eve dinner. you gave me a book. wrapped in paper you decorated yourself. little silver stars drawn by hand all over the blue.

"i saw it and thought of you."

six words. i saw it and thought of you. six words now living inside my chest cavity.

it was a first edition of a book i mentioned wanting three months ago. in passing. once. you remembered.

i held on to the wrapping paper after. folded the stars inside a textbook. i'll keep them.

february 1, 1987

i woke up at 3 am from a dream about you and i can't go back to sleep.

i'm not going to write down what happened. i'm not going to describe the way you looked or the sounds you made or what i was doing to you when you

no.

cold shower. stood under the water until my teeth chattered. didn't help. i can still feel the ghost of your body against mine. my brain invented the weight of you, the heat, the way you would arch into me if i

STOP.

this is just biology. i'm eighteen. this is normal.

it's not normal. nothing about how i want you is normal. the depth of it, the weight. i didn't dream about a body. i dreamed about YOUR body. your curves. the pitch of your laugh gone breathless. the way you'd say my name, not bobby's, mine, brendan, with your hands in my hair.

i want you so badly i can't breathe and i have no right to and the wanting is going to eat me alive.

february 14, 1987

valentine's day. bobby gave you a necklace. you nearly cried and kissed him and terrence heckled you both.

i watched from the kitchen doorway.

i didn't get you anything. getting you a valentine would be insane.

march 15, 1987

you told me today that you think i'm going to change the world.

we were sitting on the back porch. just us. you were eating an apple and reading over my harvard application essay and you put it down and looked at me and said seriously, "brendan, this is incredible. you're going to get in and then you're going to change the world and i'm going to tell everyone i knew you when you do."

and i thought: you know me now. you're the only person who knows me now.

may 14, 1987

bonfire at the beach. bobby and terrence went to get more wood. you were sitting next to me. close. your knee touching mine. the fire was low and orange and the light was painting your skin gold, catching the shadows in the dip of your collarbone, the curve of your neck.

and all i could think was: your throat. the soft patch below your ear where your jaw meets your neck. if i leaned over, if i put my mouth there. just my lips. how you would taste. salt and warmth and the lingering smoke from the fire. how your pulse would feel against my tongue. how your breath would catch.

i sat next to you with the dying fire and the crashing waves and bobby's laugh carrying from down the beach and i thought about putting my mouth on your throat for forty-five straight minutes.

you leaned your head on my shoulder. "i love nights like this."

"yeah," i said.

the fire burned to embers. i could still feel your pulse in my imagination. beating against a mouth i will never put there.

may 28, 1987

you held my hand today. just for a second. we were crossing a parking lot and a car came too fast around the corner and you grabbed my hand and pulled me back and then you didn't let go for the whole walk to the truck. just your fingers laced through mine. swinging between us. you were talking about finals and i was listening and your hand was in mine and it was a tuesday and i would sell my soul to feel this on a wednesday.

june 1, 1987

i want to touch you so badly my hands hurt

not ONLY sexually. i want to brush the hair off your face. i want to hold your hand in the car. i want to fall asleep with your head on my chest. i want the casual touches. the ones bobby gets without asking for them, the hand on the arm, the head on the shoulder, the absent fingers tracing patterns on skin while watching tv.

i want to be allowed to touch you the way he's allowed. not stolen moments dressed up as friendship. real ones. with intent. with honesty.

god i'm so fucking pathetic

june 9, 1987

graduation. we did it. senior year, done.

you found me in the crowd after. pushed through bobby and terrence and your parents and my mom and everyone else and grabbed me in a hug so tight my cap fell off. "WE DID IT BENNY" screamed directly into my ear with enough force to cause permanent hearing damage.

i hugged you tight and you laughed and your gown was billowing in the wind, and your hair was in my face. i could feel your ribs expanding with laughter against my arms and for ten seconds the world was only this. you in my arms. laughing.

bobby got the kiss. terrence got the secret handshake. i got the scream and the spin and i would trade everything i own for a lifetime supply of being the person you run to first.

july 4, 1987

sparklers at the beach. you were sitting next to me in the sand. our shoulders touching. the sky exploding in gold and red above us.

you turned to me, sparkler in hand, gold light on your face. "are you happy, benny?"

"yeah. i'm happy."

and right then i was. the wanting was still there, bedrock-deep, permanent. but for ten minutes it was quiet enough to hear the waves over it.

you put your head on my shoulder. i put my cheek on your hair.

i am never going to love anyone else. i know this the way i know chemical formulas. fact. fixed. tested and proven across every variable.

you are the only constant in my universe.

august 7, 1987

acceptance letter came. harvard. full ride.

you were the second person i showed. bobby first, because brotherhood, but you were right behind him. you took the letter and read it, your hands were shaking and you looked up at me and your eyes were full. you threw your arms around my neck and squeezed so hard i couldn't breathe.

"i knew it," you whispered wetly into my collar. "i knew it. i told you. i told you, benny."

and underneath the pride and the joy, so clear i could taste it... sadness. that's really far away. that's the other side of the country. and you didn't say it but your arms tightened and you held on longer than you needed to and i could feel the grief of it in your grip.

bobby grinned and hugged me. terrence lifted me off the ground cheering loudly. mom cried.

you held my hand under the table at dinner that night. three straight hours. nobody saw. your thumb tracing circles on my palm while everyone talked about the bright, impossible future.

i'm going to remember your thumb on my palm long after i've forgotten the letter.

august 28, 1987

last night before harvard.

you came over. just you. bobby was working late and terrence had a gig down at santa cruz. you knocked on my door and held up a wrapped package and decalred, "before you go."

it was a mixtape, but not just a mixtape. the case was hand-decorated with tiny drawings. inside jokes, all of them. a stick figure at a desk labeled "nerd at work." a tiny calculus equation with a heart instead of an equals sign. a drawing of me with ridiculous oversized glasses. on the spine, in your handwriting: "for benny. so you don't forget us."

i turned it over. on the back you'd written every track title and next to each one a note.

track 3 — this is the one i was humming during the calc final that made you glare at me. track 7 — for driving at night with the windows down. track 12 — listen to this one when you miss home. and by home i mean me.

and by home i mean me.

i stared at it for so long you got nervous. "is it stupid? it's stupid. you probably have a walkman with actual good music and this is—"

"it's perfect."

you looked at me. i looked at you. the room was very quiet and very small. you were very close and i could have kissed you. the distance between your mouth and mine was six inches and i could have closed it and everything would have changed.

i didn't. because i couldn't do that to bobby. i couldn't.

"i'm really going to miss you, benny."

"i'll call every week."

"you better."

i listened to the tape in bed that night with headphones on. track 12. over and over and over. your voice in the liner notes. and by home i mean me.

i held the case against my chest and closed my eyes, pretending your hand was there instead.

september 2, 1987

you hugged me at the truck. held on for a long time. your face in my neck and your hands gripping the back of my shirt.

"every week, brendan. if you forget about me—"

"i won't forget about you."

too fast, too serious, too much truth packed into a sentence that was supposed to be light. you pulled back and looked at me and your eyes were searching my face for something.

i don't know if you found it.

you kissed my cheek. close enough that if i'd turned my head half an inch your lips would have been on mine.

i didn't turn my head.

i got in the truck. bobby drove. i watched you in the side mirror, standing in the driveway with your arms wrapped around yourself, getting smaller and smaller.

september 18, 1987

i thought distance would help.

three thousand miles between your body and mine. no more shoulder-touches. no more vanilla smell. no more knee-against-knee in dark movie theaters. the theory was sound: remove the stimulus, reduce the response. basic conditioning.

the theory is wrong.

i miss you like an organ. like something was cut out of me at the airport and i'm walking around with the wound still open. i reach for the phone every hour. i play the mixtape until the ribbon starts to wear. i sit in lectures surrounded by brilliant, interesting people and i feel nothing. flat. grey.

here's what's strange though. i'm getting better at the other thing. the people thing.

harvard is full of people like me. the ones who read too much and talk too little and know the periodic table better than their classmates' names. for the first time in my life "quiet and intense" isn't the wrong setting. it's the default. i can hold a conversation in a study group without running the translation the whole time. i can sit in a dining hall and not feel like i'm performing personhood for an audience that isn't buying it.

i'm finding myself here, in small ways. figuring out which parts of my strangeness are flaws and which are just features nobody had a use for in santa clara.

but you remain the eye of the storm. the one quiet place where everything inside me unwinds.

harvard is teaching me how to exist around other people. you taught me that existing around another person could feel like rest instead of labour. and no amount of social growth, no amount of learning to make small talk in a dining hall, will ever replicate what you give me just by being near.

the silence that isn't empty. the touch that doesn't sting. the calm.

i am homesick for a person, not a place.

october 3, 1987

a girl in my organic chemistry study group asked me out. claire. smart. funny. objectively attractive.

i said yes because i'm supposed to say yes. because normal people say yes. because bobby would say yes and terrence would say yes, and this is what nineteen-year-olds do.

we got coffee. she was kind. she laughed at my poor jokes. she touched my hand across the table.

i felt nothing. absolutely nothing. like pressing my palm against a wall and waiting for warmth that never comes.

she leaned in to kiss me at the end and i let her and her mouth was on mine and all i could think was: wrong. wrong lips. wrong pressure. wrong taste. wrong person. WRONG.

i pulled away and said i was sorry and walked home. stood in the shower and scrubbed my mouth raw, and felt sick with how much i wanted it to have been you.

october 19, 1987

you called tonight. bobby was at work and you were bored and you called. we talked for two hours. my roommate left after twenty minutes because apparently i was "smiling weird."

you told me about your week. clark's being terrible. terrence's band. the stray cat on your porch. you told me everything and i held the phone with my eyes closed and you were there. in my ear. telling me about a cat like it was the most important news in the world.

"i miss you, benny." soft. sleepy.

"i miss you too."

the safest true thing i've ever said. because i miss you is allowed. i miss you lives in the acceptable zone. i miss you is what a friend says.

i miss you the way a lung misses air. i miss you so much i have rearranged my entire week around the possibility that you might call again.

but "i miss you too" is what i said.

november 12, 1987

there's a guy in my anatomy class. david. he's been friendly. eating lunch together, studying. today he put his hand on my knee under the table and looked at me with a question in his eyes.

nothing. nothing nothing nothing. i am broken or i am built wrong or i am simply, irrevocably, yours in a way that excludes every other human being on this planet regardless of what they look like or what's between their legs.

i told him i was flattered. i meant it. i am flattered that anyone wants someone like me.

i just can't want them back. the machinery only runs for you. i've tested it now. both genders. kind people, attractive people, people who deserved better than the hollow version of me sitting across from them. and every single time the same flat nothing. the same grey wall.

then you call and the wall dissolves and every colour rushes back in, and i think: oh. there i am. i was here the whole time. i just only exist when you're nearby.

distance was supposed to fix this. i was supposed to get better.

i'm not getting better. i'm getting worse. three thousand miles and i am worse.

november 26, 1987

thanksgiving. came home. you saw me in the doorway and your face lit up. you ran at me and jumped and i caught you. your arms locked around my neck, your face buried in my shoulder. you were laughing and squeezing me so tight i couldn't breathe.

i could have held you like that until the sun burned itself out.

bobby was right behind me. you let go of me and hugged him and kissed him and you stood in the hallway with your foreheads together and i carried my bag upstairs.

you run at me. you kiss him. the running is enthusiastic and warm and genuine. the kissing is intimate and private and his.

i want the kiss. i'd burn for the kiss.

and i hate myself for wanting it because bobby is my brother and he's happy and he deserves this after dad.

he deserves this more than me.

december 3, 1987

i think loving you is going to kill me.

i wish i could take my heart out and set it aside. put it in a jar on a shelf. come back for it when it's safe. but it's never going to be safe, is it? there's no version of my life where loving you is safe. there's only the version where i carry it and i'm going to carry it till my heart stops.

february 14, 1988

valentine's day. i mailed you a book. astronomy. because you said once, in october, that you wished you knew more about constellations. the note said: "saw this, thought you'd like it — B." casual. friendly.

you called to thank me. "brendan bennett franklin, you're the sweetest person alive."

i sat on my dorm room floor with the phone cord wrapped around my finger and thought: i am not sweet. i am a liar. i bought you a valentine and called it casual and you believed me because you don't see me. you look right at me with those warm eyes and you see a friend. a brother. a good person.

you don't see the thing underneath that wants to kiss you until neither of us can stand.

april 16, 1988

a girl at a party. i don't remember her name. i was a little drunk and she was pretty and i thought: just try. just try to be normal. to want someone attainable. someone who isn't your brother's girlfriend.

we went to her room. she kissed me and took her shirt off and i looked at her and felt... revulsion. not at her. at the wrongness of it. at my own body's flat refusal to participate in anything that wasn't you. i made an excuse. left. walked home in the cold.

the distance was supposed to make this better. the new people, the new context. a fresh start without you in every room.

but you're in every room. you're in the phone on my desk and the mixtape in my walkman and the book on my shelf with the silver stars on the wrapping paper that i kept like a goddamn shrine. you're in the way i scan every crowd for your face. you're in the hollow feeling when i don't find it.

what is wrong with me? what is fundamentally, structurally wrong with me that i can't want anyone who isn't you?

i sat on my bathroom floor and put my head in my hands and asked myself if this is what the rest of my life looks like. a series of empty rooms with the wrong people in them. a body that only responds to one person. a lock with one key and the key belongs to my brother's girlfriend.

yes. that's what it looks like. i know the answer already. i've always known.

april 30, 1988

i made a list today. of reasons to stop.

she's bobby's girlfriend.

bobby is my twin.

bobby loves her.

she loves bobby.

i am betraying him with every thought i have about her.

i am betraying HER with every thought i have about her because she trusts me and i'm lying to her.

i am twenty years old and i have never had a normal sexual or romantic interaction with another human being because my body won't cooperate with anyone who isn't her.

this is not love. this is fixation. i'm sick. i'm sick in the head.

if she knew what i think about when i hear her voice on the phone she would never speak to me again.

i am a bad person.

i stared at the list for a long time. each point is factually accurate. logically sound. irrefutable.

you called an hour later and called out happily, "benny, tell me about your day" and the list caught fire and burned to ash before you finished the sentence.

i am a bad person who loves a good person and the loving makes me worse.

may 19, 1988

my roommate has a girlfriend. they have sex in our room while i'm at the library and they think i don't know. i know because the sheets are different when i come back and the room smells like sweat and perfume and he's got that dazed, satisfied grin.

i looked at him last night (happy, spent, normal) and thought: why can't i be like that? why can't i want someone who wants me back? someone available. someone whose last name isn't franklin.

tried again in my head. conjured up every attractive person i've met at harvard. ran through them one by one, tried to imagine kissing them, touching them. like flipping through a catalogue of locked doors.

and then i thought about your hands in my hair and my whole body responded so violently i had to excuse myself to the bathroom.

why am i like this

why am i like this why am i like this why am i like this

three thousand miles. eighteen months of distance. dozens of kind, attractive, available people and my body is a locked room with your name on the door and no other key fits and i have tried every key and they all feel like violations.

i'm so tired of trying and failing and trying and failing and coming back to the same truth every single time:

it's you. it was always you. it will only ever be you.

and i can never, ever have you.

june 7, 1988

summer. home again.

bobby and you have been together two years and the cracks are starting to show. you don't talk about it. that's your flaw, the swallowing. the folding up of hurt into small squares and tucking them away.

i see it though. the way you wait for bobby to call and he doesn't. the way you make plans and he forgets. the way you press your lips together for one second when you're disappointed before the smile goes back on. nobody else catches it.

i catch it every time.

i hate him for it. my twin. who i love more than anyone except you. i hate him for having the thing i would dismantle myself to have and treating it like it'll always be there.

you won't always be there. patience has a floor and one day you'll hit it.

i can't say this to him. he'll hear what it really is. jealousy dressed up as concern.

july 22, 1988

you came over while bobby was at work. back porch. popsicles. you were telling me about a movie and your lips were stained red and a drop ran down your wrist and you licked it off and i—

i need to stop writing these down

"you're staring, benny."

"you have popsicle on your chin."

you wiped it off, laughing.

you don't know. you genuinely don't know what your mouth does to me, what your hands do to me, what the sound of my name in your voice does to me.

if you knew, you'd stop coming over. you'd stop touching my arm and leaning into me and putting your head on my shoulder. and losing those things would end me faster than never having had them.

good old brendan. safe brendan. bobby's quiet brother who helps with calculus and always has a book.

the mask stays on.

august 3, 1988

you fell asleep on my bed today while i was studying. lying on your stomach with one arm hanging off the edge and your face turned toward me and your mouth open and you were drooling on my pillow.

drooling. on my pillow.

the love i feel for you hit me so hard i couldn't move for half an hour.

august 15, 1988

please let me stop loving her

please. whoever is listening. let me stop.

let me wake up one morning and feel nothing when she says my name. let the hugs feel like hugs instead of slow immolation. let me sit next to her without mapping every centimetre between our bodies. let me be the friend she thinks i am instead of the liar i know i am.

i don't want this anymore. it hurts too much. please, it hurts. three years and it's only getting deeper and i can't

i can't switch it off. i don't know how. i don't think there is a how.

i think this is just what i am now. a boy who loves a girl who loves his brother.

september 6, 1988

back at harvard. unpacking. found one of your hair ties tangled in my clean laundry. you must have left it when you were over last.

i put it on my wrist. wore it all day. took it off before bed and put it on the nightstand and looked at it and thought: this is the closest thing i have to wearing a ring from you.

a hair tie. on a nightstand. in a dorm room in harvard.

september 22, 1988

i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be happy please i just want to be happy

bad day.

october 10, 1988

you called at 1 am. crying. fighting with bobby. your voice thick and wet.

"i don't know what to do, benny. i love him so much and he won't let me in."

and i sat on my dorm room bed with the phone pressed to my ear until it ached and told you:

"you're the strongest person i know."

and you said: "why can't he just say it, brendan? why can't he just say he loves me?"

i love you. i love you. i love you. three words bobby can't get past his teeth and i can't get past my conscience.

"he loves you. he's just scared."

"i know."

"give him time."

"i always give him time."

and i wanted to say: stop giving him time. stop waiting. he's wasting you. he's burning daylight with a girl made of sunlight and he doesn't even see it.

i said: "you deserve someone who says it."

long pause. your breathing slowing.

"thanks, benny. you always know what to say."

i don't know what to say. i know what not to say. there's a vast, dark, freezing difference.

march 30, 1989

spring break. you picked me up from the airport. standing at arrivals in a sundress holding a sign that said NERD in huge letters.

you dropped the sign and ran and i caught you and your laugh was in my ear and the sundress was thin and your body was warm against mine.

you drove us home. windows down. radio on. singing badly. your hand squeezing my arm at a red light.

i would burn harvard to the ground for this. for your hand on my arm, shaking me because you were so happy to see me. for the wind in your hair. for your voice saying my name like it's your favourite word.

i would give up everything. the degree. the future. the carefully constructed life three thousand miles away.

i would give up all of it for one day where you're mine.

one day. and then i'd give you back. i'd carry the memory for the rest of my life and it would be enough.

it would have to be.

HE FUCKING FORGOT, 1989

bobby forgot your birthday.

you didn't tell me. you wouldn't. i found out because terrence called me, and said "dude, bobby got too high and forgot" and his voice was tight with the anger he rarely shows.

i called you from the payphone in the hallway and said happy birthday and you said "thanks, benny" in that voice. that bright, fine, everything's-fine voice that i can see through like glass. and i heard the crack underneath it and the love hit me and the rage hit me in the same breath.

i called bobby after, and i don't raise my voice. i have raised my voice maybe five times in my life. but i said his name in a way that made him go quiet immediately on the other end and i said "you forgot her birthday" and the silence that followed was long and guilty.

"shit," he said. "shit, benny, i—"

"call her. right now. and if you ever do this again—"

i didn't finish the sentence. didn't need to. bobby heard what was underneath it. heard the edge i keep so carefully hidden, the cold thing that lives behind the shyness, and for a second i think he heard the OTHER thing, too.

the reason the anger was so hot, the reason it came so fast, the reason his twin brother was calling from three thousand miles away trembling with fury over a forgotten birthday that wasn't his to remember.

he called you. sent flowers the next day, took you out for dinner. you forgave him because you always forgive him.

i sat in the phone booth for ten minutes after with my head against the glass. my hands were shaking. not from anger. from how close i'd come to saying too much. from the size of the feeling pressing against my ribs. from the knowledge that i would burn my relationship with my brother to the ground to protect you from pain and the fact that this doesn't make me a good person.

it makes me a dangerous one.

may 2, 1989

your voice on the phone tonight, laughing about a terrible customer at clark's, imitating his voice, making me laugh until my stomach hurt.

i pressed the phone so hard against my ear it left a red mark and i thought: i don't want to die without having kissed you. i don't care about anything else. the degree. the career. the future. i just don't want to die without knowing what your mouth tastes like.

that's all.

june 14, 1989

you were lying on a blanket in the back yard. reading. the sun was on your legs and your feet were bare and you was chewing on a pen cap. your hair was pulled up and the back of your neck was exposed.

i sat on the porch steps and watched the back of your neck for twenty minutes.

twenty minutes. the back of your neck.

i am beyond help.

july 4, 1989

short one.

sparklers again. your shoulder against mine. same beach. same sand. same sky.

different year. same ache. same shape. same boy sitting in the dark loving the same girl who doesn't know.

happy fourth of july.

september 20, 1989

second year of pre-med. my hands shake from caffeine. i forgot to eat yesterday.

you called. i picked up on the first ring. i will always pick up on the first ring.

"brendan bennett franklin. eat something, drink water, and go to bed."

"i have a paper—"

"go. to. bed. if you sound this wrecked tomorrow i'm driving down myself."

i ate a sandwich. drank water. went to bed. fell asleep holding the phone.

you mailed me a care package last month. my favourite snacks. a note that said: "don't die. i need you."

i folded the note and put it in my wallet. i'll probably be buried with it.

november 23, 1989

thanksgiving. you saw me in the kitchen and your face did the light-up. the full-body brightening.

my hair is longer, brushing my ears and curling at the nape. you reached up and pushed it back from my forehead. your fingers dragged across my scalp and my whole body went rigid.

"look at you. all grown up and scholarly." you tugged a strand behind my ear. "very handsome, benny."

i said "thanks" to the refrigerator. my ears were burning.

bobby came in. you kissed him. i excused myself.

i sat on my bed and pressed my hand to my scalp where your fingers had been and breathed in through my nose for a count of four, and out through my mouth for a count of four for ten minutes because my heart rate would not come down.

handsome. you said handsome. you touched my hair and called me handsome.

next three lifetimes. i'm carrying this.

january 6, 1990

i had a dream about you. i'm going to write it down because i have to put it somewhere that doesn't judge me.

you were in my dorm room. sitting on my bed. and you said "benny, come here" and i went. you put your hands on my face and kissed me and i could feel it. the pressure of your mouth. the warmth of your breath. your lips parting and your tongue finding mine and the small sound you made when i pulled you closer.

and then you were under me. your legs wrapped around my waist. i was inside you. and you were saying my name. not bobby's, mine, brendan. over and over while your nails dragged down my back and your head fell back and i could feel you around me, tight and warm and perfect. every time you said brendan i went deeper and you arched into me.

i woke up so hard it hurt. sheets ruined.

i lay in the dark and put my hand around myself and thought about you beneath me and came in under a minute with a pained groan, and felt like the worst person alive.

you trust me completely. and i'm lying in the dark getting off to dreams about being inside you.

i'm sick

i'm not sick. i'm in love. but from here they feel the same.

march 2, 1990

your voice on the phone last night, sleepy and warm: "night, benny. love you."

casual. friendly. the way you say it to terrence. the way you say it to your friends.

i hung up and pressed the phone against my chest and stared at the ceiling.

love you. you say it so easily. like the words are light. like they cost nothing.

for me they cost everything.

march 15, 1990

you visited for my birthday. flew out alone. bobby couldn't make it.

you were standing outside my dorm with a bakery box and a toothy grin. "happy birthday, benny! it's lopsided because TSA manhandled it."

three days. you slept in my roommate's bed. wore my harvard sweater because you forgot to pack layers, too used to cali heat. it was too big on you. sleeves past your fingertips. collar slipping off one shoulder. bare legs. padding around my room.

i very nearly put my fist through a wall.

we stayed up until 4 am. lying in the dark on separate beds. your voice floating across the room. you told me things you haven't told bobby. things about your childhood. your fears. you talk to me differently than you talk to him. with bobby you're warm but with me you're open. like i'm the one place you can put things down.

"you're my favourite person." half asleep. murmured. "don't tell bobby."

i won't tell bobby. i won't tell anyone. i will take that sentence and compress it into a diamond and keep it in my chest forever.

on the last morning you hugged me at the airport. held on. your face in my neck and your hands gripping the back of my shirt and i breathed you in. vanilla and that warm unnamed you scent. stored it. another moment that belongs to me in all the wrong ways.

"come home soon."

i'm always coming home. you're there. there is no other reason needed.

april 27, 1990

you called me crying last night. bobby again. another fight. another door closed in your face.

and i sat on my bed and held the phone and listened and said the right things and the kind things and the things a good friend says. but underneath every word was this screaming, roaring, monstrous want to say: LEAVE HIM. LEAVE HIM AND LOVE ME. I WOULD NEVER DO THIS TO YOU. I WOULD NEVER FORGET YOUR BIRTHDAY. I WOULD NEVER MAKE YOU CRY. I WOULD SAY I LOVE YOU EVERY SINGLE MORNING BEFORE YOU FINISHED OPENING YOUR EYES.

i said: "he's an idiot but he'll come around. give him time."

i'm such a coward

i am such a fucking coward

may 15, 1990

two entries in quick succession because i need to put this somewhere before it eats through my chest.

i came home for the weekend. you were at the house. bobby was at work. you were in the kitchen making lunch and you turned and saw me and made that sound (that little happy gasp) and threw yourself at me.

and i held you. my face in your hair. your body against mine. and you pulled back and looked at me with those eyes, and put your hand on my cheek, and said worriedly, "you look tired, benny. are they working you too hard?"

and your hand was on my face. your palm on my cheek. your thumb brushing the skin under my eye. and you were close enough to kiss. and i could feel my pulse in my throat and my fingertips and the backs of my knees and i was drowning in the scent of you, vanilla and warmth and clean laundry. my hands were on your waist and yours was on my face and the kitchen was empty and quiet, and i could have leaned forward two inches and—

bobby's truck pulled into the driveway.

you dropped your hand. smiled. went to greet him.

two inches. i was two inches from ruining everything and saving everything, and i don't know which it would have been and i'll never know. i stood in the empty kitchen and pressed my hand to the cheek you touched and breathed through my teeth until my heart rate dropped.

june 3, 1990

i love my brother. i love bobby since we were born seven minutes apart and he came out screaming and i came out quiet. i love him for his warmth. his courage. the way he tried to shield me from dad even when we were too small to name what was happening. how he always stood up for me, always tried to understand me even when he never could.

but when it comes to you.

when it comes to you i hate him too.

i hate that he has what i want. i hate that he doesn't always value it. i hate that he gets to hold your hand and kiss you and fall asleep with your head on his chest but doesn't understand what a miracle that is because he's never stood on the other side of it watching.

i hate myself for hating him. he didn't steal you. he asked and you said yes and i never opened my mouth. the silence was my choice. every single day i choose it and every day it gets heavier.

i love him. i hate him. i love you. i can't have you.

four facts. a box with no door.

july 14, 1990

i've gotten better at being a person.

three years of harvard and i can navigate a party without wanting to leave within five minutes. i can make friends. i can read a room without running the translation in real time. the machinery is smoother now. the performance takes less effort.

but it's still a performance. everywhere except with you.

you're the only place where i don't have to translate. the only person whose presence makes the noise in my head go quiet instead of louder. everyone else, even the people i've grown to love at harvard, requires a version of me. you just require me. the real one. the strange one. the one who needs silence and can't handle being touched by anyone except you ,and notices too many details, and feels everything at the wrong volume.

you've never once asked me to be different. you've never once made me feel like the way i'm wired is a problem to be solved. you just sit with me in the quiet and let me be strange and call me benny. hold my hand and everything inside me goes still.

the eye of the storm. every time. the one calm place in a world that's always too loud.

july 28, 1990

if i could have one day.

one day where you wake up next to me. where you reach for me in the dark. where you say brendan in the voice i've only heard in dreams. where i can put my hands on your face and say it out loud, in daylight, without shame, without the weight of brotherhood crushing the words before they leave my mouth.

one day where the "i miss you benny" becomes "i love you brendan." where the hugs don't end because you're pulling away to go back to him. where i can press my mouth to the skin on your throat i've imagined ten thousand times. where your hands are in my hair because you want them there.

just one day.

and then i'd give you back, and carry it forever.

i am twenty years old. pre-med at harvard. full ride. a life that looks like everything a person could want.

and every night i fall asleep missing a girl who sleeps in my brother's bed. and every morning the missing is the same size. the same depth. the same fixed point that everything else orbits.

i don't know how to stop.

i don't think i'm supposed to.

[undated, late 1990]

i love you

i love you

i'm in love with you

i've been in love with you since september 3rd, 1985, homeroom, twelve minutes late, window seat

i love you and i can't say it and the not saying is killing me, it is actually, physically, killing me

i love you more than he does. i love you better. i would never make you cry, i would never forget, i would never close a door in your face

no. that's not fair. he loves you. he does. he just doesn't know how. and i do know how and i can't and that's

i love you

i love you and i'm so tired of not saying it

i love you and i've never kissed anyone who wasn't wrong

i love you and you call me benny and it's the closest i'll ever get to hearing my name in your mouth the way i need to hear it

i love you and i tried to stop and i can't stop

i love you and i don't want anyone else and i've tried and i will never want anyone else

i love you and you held my hand under the table and i almost told you then

i love you and you slept on my shoulder and i memorised your breathing

i love you and you made me a mixtape and wrote "and by home i mean me" and i have listened to track 12 four hundred times

i love you and i am so afraid you'll find this notebook

i love you and i am so afraid you won't

i love you and bobby is my brother and i love him and i hate him and i love you and i can't

i love you i love you i love you i love you

i should write it down. the real way. once. clearly. not crossed out.

for every time i didn't say it but should have. for every hug where i held on too long and you didn't notice. for every time you fell asleep on my shoulder and i sat perfectly still and memorised the pattern of your breathing. for the mixtape and the silver stars and the way you said and by home i mean me.

for every phone call at 1 am when your voice was the only warm thing in my whole life. for every time you ran at me in an airport. for every time you touched my hair and called me handsome, and i said thanks to the refrigerator because looking at you while you said it would have ended me. for the parking lot where you held my hand. for the two inches in the kitchen. for the dream where you said my name. for the popsicle on your wrist. for your head on my shoulder at every bonfire. for your palm on my cheek and your thumb under my eye and the truck pulling into the driveway.

for the hair tie on my nightstand. for the book with the silver stars i still keep pressed flat inside a textbook. for the three thousand miles that were supposed to fix me and only proved that i am unfixable.

i love you.

i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you.

i love you and i should have said it in the kitchen when your hand was on my face. i love you and i should have said it in my dorm room when you were wearing my sweater and the collar was slipping off your shoulder. i love you and i should have said it at graduation when you screamed in my ear. i love you and i should have said it at the bonfire when you asked if i was happy.

i love you and i have never once been brave enough to say it and writing it down is the closest i will ever come and even now, even in a notebook nobody will read, the words feel too large for the page.

they feel too large for my hands. they feel too large for my chest which has been holding them for five years and is so full the seams are splitting and i am so tired. i am so tired of carrying this. i am so tired of being good and quiet and safe while the love sits behind my teeth and rots there because i will not let it out.

i love you. there. for every time i didn't.

i lo

[the entry ends here. the last two letters trail off the line, the pen stroke dragging sideways across the page before stopping. the ink on this page and the one before it is warped and buckled. the paper has dried stiff and rippled in places, the way paper does when it gets wet and dries again. the distortion is heaviest around the final lines, where the ink has bled and feathered outward, blurring the words at their edges. it is not water damage.]