I stare across the table at him.
He looks like shit.
A lot worse than he did on the day I first moved in. A hell of a lot worse.
He's slouching in the kitchen chair, his head resting in his hand, his plate of breakfast being absently pushed around.
His hair is messy and long, drooping into his eyes and covering his ears. The beard reaching from his mouth to his neck has graduated from five o'clock shadow to full-on facial hair. He still looks stunning, but he's not taking care of himself. Not at all. And I haven't seen much of him in the last few weeks.
He picks up a forkful of his omelet, which is cold by now and puts it in his mouth, chewing halfheartedly.
"Thanks," he rasps. "By the way. For breakfast."
"Yeah."
I haven't heard him speak in two weeks. He's hardly even come down from his room for more than a few minutes, just to get some of whatever I'm making. And then he disappears again.
It's like living alone with ghosts.
I look away. I can't stand the sight of him.
What the fuck has gotten into his head? I don't know him that well, sure, but this is ridiculous. If he didn't want me here, he shouldn't have acted like it was cool for me to move in. And now he's pulling this passive-aggressive shit on me?
What's gotten into you, I want to ask. What's wrong with you? Are you an idiot or just an ass? Do you need my help or are you trying to get me to leave?
I huff and look away.
He prickles, taking a pause and looking up from his food.
I glance back. He knows, now. That I'm not happy with him. He most certainly knows. I get up and start to walk towards the living room.
His hand gently skims my thigh, and it feels like shimmering needles shooting up my side. His finger slips into my belt loop, holding and pulling me back.
"Arthur."
I turn back, trying to keep my voice neutral. "What?"
He shocks at the question like I slapped him.
"I'm sorry." He says, pulling on my belt loop again, just a little.
"For what?" I ask. I try to sound more sympathetic.
"For..." He groans, letting go and laying his head in his arms.
I sit back down, this time right next to him. "Why have you been avoiding me?"
He moves his head, facing me. "You think that's what it was?"
"Well..." I slump into my chair. "Kinda."
He pushes his face back into his elbows, shaking his head. "It wasn't about you."
"Oh." I gather my hands in my lap and play with my fingers. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," he shrugs his shoulders and sits up again. "I'm sorry."
Why is he apologizing? Why would he need to apologize after that? I accused him of something, and...
He stands up, resting his hand on my shoulder. His palm is warm and it doesn't feel condescending like it does when my father puts his hand there.
But as quickly as I realized the warmth, he turns and walks upstairs again. Will it be another three weeks before we talk again?
"Aedin, wait," I croak.
He's gone.
I look down at the tile underneath the table. I don't want to wait another three weeks to talk. I like talking to him.
He makes me feel kinda safe. Like everything's okay. All the shitty people at work doing shitty things, the situation back home, everything. It all goes away when he opens his mouth.
But now that he's gone back upstairs, my mind wanders, ever-so-slowly, back to Ben.
Why? No, I know why. I understand. I just... don't understand, at the same time. We got together before he came out, years and years ago. We had watched each other for years but only became friends when high school bullying drove us together.
At first, he said the sneaking around, it was exciting. It gave him a rush, coming home from seeing me and finding that he hadn't been caught. It was a secret, a big one, and one that was more fun to keep than to tell.
That was the most important part. It was better to keep it a secret than to tell. Like averting someone's eyes from something horrible, to keep them from seeing it and popping their bubble.
It was better to pretend we were just friends than to pop my mother's bubble.
I'm her only son. I wasn't spoiled, but I was my mother's baby. And she wished, so badly she wished, that I would grow up, and find a nice girl, and have a family. Give her and my father a direct bloodline. Pass down the family name.
But what would they think if they knew I was gay?
"Mom, dad," I would say. "I'm gay."
What would they say? How would they react? It's blackness after I come out. I have no idea. And I don't want it to go badly. I don't want the worst possible ending.
Maybe I'm not avoiding popping my mother's bubble.
Maybe I'm avoiding popping my own.
Maybe I'm not telling them because it's nice to pretend that I'm normal. It's nice to see, when they look at me, that they think I'm exactly the person they've always wanted me to be.
No, that doesn't sound right.
If I come out, then that's that. What if this a phase, like everyone said in college? What if, years after I come out, I decide that, actually, no, I'd rather be with a woman? What if, then, I have to go through all of this again? What if I have to worry about coming out as straight?
Won't that be fucked?
I look up at the top of the stairs again. Please, come back down, Aedin.
Silence.
No, not... silence. The hum of the air conditioning, the buzz of electricity in the house. The ringing of my ears, damaged by years of listening to music too loud.
Dozens of tiny sounds, amplified by the space someone leaves behind as they leave. The sounds of an empty space, where people keep leaving me, alone.