Cease

Monday, the day that Marc, Lance, Olivia and Tom return to school, comes quickly and without warning. I have been dreading and waiting for its arrival with an anxious, guilty sort of want, and now it is here and all I feel is lonely and peaceful, a strange mix.

Olivia and Tom were here for the past two days, pestering me about this and that and letting me watch them act like idiots, because they wanted to make me smile. And it did make me smile. But what made me happier were the real moments; the soft, small things that made me feel warm inside. Like when we were watching a movie, all lying on my bed with the TV that dad lugged in, placed on a stool by the wall. And they sat up against the headboard while I lay down. And Olivia slowly lay down, too, her head in Tom's lap, and he smiled softly and ran his fingers through her hair with an expression so open and full of love that it made me insanely happy and sad all at once: happy for them, and sad for me. And I miss them, suddenly, so strongly it takes my breath away. Sometimes, being alone is nice. But not now. Not in this moment.

I miss Marcus. The feeling is so strong that it is a pain in my chest, an ache that is intangible but just as strong as anything physical. He is a part of me that has gone missing, and the hole he has left is red and ragged and weeping, and I need him back. I haven't spoken to him since the incident at the door, and now I am feeling a little sorry for how I treated him, but not for what I said: it was all true, and perfectly justified, and I will not feel sorry for what I think, for what I believe and what I know. All I can do is hope he comes to his senses. All I can do is hope that he misses me as much as I miss him.

There is another ache inside of me that I have been struggling to put a name to for hours, and now I know what it is, and all I can call it is Lance. He is a new limb, a new fixture in my life. And I know that I don't need him, I shouldn't need him, but I want him, and that subtle difference makes his place in my life seem all the more solid. And so my worry eats at me like fire at paper, burning up everything til rationality has departed, and I lie in my bed, alone, in the dark. Because he hasn't come back since he made me that promise. Hasn't called, or texted, or responded to any of my calls and texts respectively. I even asked Olivia and Tom to look for him at school today, to see if he's ok. Just to see if he's alright.

The door creaks open, and mum comes in, seats herself on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong, darling?" she asks. Always intuitive. So clever, my mother.

My thoughts scramble, and then rearrange themselves into something resembling a sentence. "Lance," I say. That's all.

Mum sighs. "He hasn't called?" I shake my head. "Texted?" Another shake. "Emailed?" I don't even bother shaking my head. "Written a letter? Corresponded via Morse code?" I snort, and then I smile, and it doesn't hurt so I smile wider. She puts her hand over mine, carefully, as if I am glass, which I am today, and smiles at me in the dark, her teeth white and more visible than the rest of her.

She opens her mouth to say something more, and then the doorbell rings. She closes her mouth, squeezes my hand gently, and gets to her feet. "I wonder who that is?" she says, not really asking me the question, just murmuring it to herself. And  I wonder the same thing as she walks out of the room, closing the door behind her. Because Marc and Olivia and Tom and Lance are at school, and dad is at work, and besides, he wouldn't ring the bell to his own house. And any family we have live far enough away that they usually call, give us some notice before they come over. Ask if I'm well enough for a visit, as if I am dying at this very moment. Which, I suppose, I am, but everyone is, and that doesn't stop them from getting into cars and going on walks and doing other everyday things like eating and running and getting on planes, which could kill them just as easily as my illness could kill me.

I hear the front door open, the soft slap of sneakers on the floor, the creak of my door as it opens. I raise my head from my pillow, look through the darkness. The intruder stands in the doorway, unsure and tall and shaggy-haired.

"Lance," I say softly in greeting.  Relief surges through me, so strongly I am surprised by the feeling. My fingers curl in the sheets at my sides, and my eyes scan his silhouette as if it has been weeks, and not days, since I last saw him. I wonder why he is here, and thoughts crowd in my head like little birds, fluttering to escape.

"Hey, Syl," he says, his voice a little empty. He closes the door behind him and steps further into the room, then takes a seat on the edge of my bed.

He is quiet for a while, but I am patient. "You can lie down," I suggest.

He slips off his shoes silently and carefully lies beside me. I breathe in deeply; though he has clearly showered, the scent of chlorine still sticks to him, as if it's a part of his person rather than something that can be washed away. We stare up at the ceiling together, and my curiosity overrides my patience. "Aren't you meant to be at school?" I ask cautiously.

He shifts, folds his hands over his flat stomach. "Yes," he says, and I wait. "Tiana's heart stopped," he says bluntly, and my breath catches as I fumble for words, my own heart skipping a beat, but he continues. "I'm waiting to hear from them." He pulls his phone from his pocket, sets it between us on the sheets, and folds his hands again. "It's strange; I haven't known you for long, really, but you're the only person I want to talk to. Not Greg or a councillor or a friend. You."

I cannot find any words. I am empty of everything. This is how to unlearn a language that has taken a lifetime for me to master.

"Can I wait here?" he asks. His voice is empty, I notice, as empty as it was when he walked in.

I force my hand across the sheets, but get tired and stop. It is a bad day, today.  A horrible day, when I can hardly move, but I can smile. And this is a situation where I feel further from smiling than I ever have.

He turns his head, looks at me, his eyes tracing down to my hand on the sheets. Then he looks away: takes his hand and folds his fingers around mine. I am strangely grateful. We lie like that, fingers entwined between us, beside the phone, until the screen lights up and it shakes.

Then he lets go of my hand, reads a message, presses a kiss to my forehead, and darts from the room.

I am too shocked to feel the pain. But it comes later. The pain of his quick departure, not of his lips on my skin. That could never hurt me. Besides, today I do not hurt. Today, I am bone tired. But my body does not hurt.

I lie in my bed, my head spinning with thoughts, the aftershock of his lips on my skin nothing compared to the relief I feel inside of me, for a little girl who loves fairies, and a boy who loves her more than anything.