Breathe

It has been two weeks since that day, the day that made me infinitely happy and sad at once.

Two blissful, lovely weeks of time with my friends and family. And Lance.

Two weeks of good days.

Last week I convinced Lance to go back to school; I've been helping him catch up, as he's doing most of the subjects I did. I'm surprised at the capacity of my memory to withhold all of that information, when I have not used it for so long. But I am glad that I have that ability, that capacity, so that I can help him. He's so smart, he hardly needs me, but I am selfish, and I will take all the time with him I can get. And having two good weeks allowed me to help him. I have become accustomed to the look of Lance's room: neat and spare. And the quiet disdain of Greg. His silence and his disapproving gaze. I have learned to ignore them.

I remember the hope in mum and dad's eyes; the hope that spoke of their belief of me getting better. But I am not getting better, and it could not have lasted for much longer. So, for me, the pain I am in is no surprise; it is a reprieve from the angst of waiting for its arrival.

I hear the sound of my door, softly creaking open, as if from a profound distance. I open my eyes blearily and then blink them closed with a pained groan.

"Syl?" Lance's voice, a soft whisper.

"Hey," I say, my voice pained. I hear the door close. Try to open my eyes; they will not budge. I sigh shallowly. "I really want to look at you, but it hurts to open my eyes," I say, my voice so quiet I doubt he can hear me.

"It's ok," he says. He heard me. He always hears me. I don't know why I would doubt it.

I feel his fingers, soft as a breath against my cheek. "Sorry we can't do whatever you had planned," I tell him.

There is a pensive silence, and he runs his fingers across my cheek, beneath my eye and over the bridge of my nose. I can hardly feel it; it is more of a displacement of air than an actual touch.

"How do you know this isn't what I had planned?" he asks.

"You planned on talking to me? On staying in my room?"

"I always plan on talking to you." I feel the bed shift slightly as he leans his hand beside my shoulder. His fingers push the hair from my neck, and I flinch as they press a little harder than before. He freezes. "Where do you hurt today, Syl?"

"Everywhere," I whisper.

"Well," he says, and I feel him move away; I hear the sound of his feet against the floor, the compression of the bed as he sits down on the opposite side, and the thump of his shoes on the ground. "That's good. Because my plans," he pauses as he carefully lowers himself back onto the bed, "were to lie right here, anyway."

I laugh a little, and it is a broken sound. "Really?"

"Really," he says.

"You're happy with that?" My voice is sceptical.

"I'm happy as long as you're here," he says. I roll onto my side, facing him, stifling a pained cry as my side flares; it will be covered in bruising, later, but I don't care.

I steady my breathing, and force open my eyes, bit by bit, til I can see him. "You're awfully sweet," I say.

He smiles, with his eyes and with his lips, an impossibly sweet and crooked smile that makes my heart stutter inside of me. "No, I'm not. I'm selfish. Because this allows me the opportunity to stare at you, uninterrupted, for a very long time. And I don't even care if that makes me creepy. Because seeing you, looking at you, being near you, it's worth it. It's worth everything."

I stare at him for a long moment. "I really, really want to kiss you, right now. But I can't," I say. It should be a ridiculous sentence, but it sounds sad and soft and a little hopeless.

"That's ok," Lance says, and I close my eyes with a bitter laugh.

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is," he repeats, his voice low. "Because you'll have plenty of time to kiss me later. But right now, we have the opportunity to do nothing. And how often are you able to be with someone, and do absolutely nothing, together?"

I think about this, behind the blackness of my eyelids. "It is a privilege, an honour, to do nothing with you, Lance," I say.

"And I with you," he says. And I listen to the sound of his breathing, and match mine to his. And, as I drift to sleep, I imagine I can hear his heart beating. And I imagine the flow of words through his blood, every one of them right and every one of them for me. And I think that I will never truly appreciate how much that means, but I can try. And I do.