Circling the car, I ease the door open. He sleepily blinks at me like he can’t figure out if I’m real or not. I extend a hand to him.
He grimaces, pushing me away to weave clumsily upstairs, clinging to the railing with me right behind him. He misses the top step—
My arm bands around his waist.
“Careful.”
“Fuck you.”
I pinch my lips.
It takes him five whole minutes to find the key (he only has three but he won't let me touch them) and unlock the apartment. I’m on his heels, over the threshold so he can't slam the door in my face.
My steps falter.
He cleaned.
The under-cabinet lights cast a soothing glow over the open-concept space. The kitchen counter is clear of clutter and a candle sits in front of the sink beside an orange prescription bottle. Even the blankets on his couch are folded, a neat stack of psychology textbooks resting beside his laptop on the coffee table.
From his bedroom, Mitz releases an excited meow in greeting. Remy drops to his knees in the center of the apartment as she trots to him. He scoops her up, burying his face in her fur.
“Why do you live by yourself?” I ask, opening the refrigerator and grabbing the unopened box of Indian food.
“Because I’m tired of people.”
I start the microwave. “But you used to hate being alone.”
He pauses. I glance over my shoulder to find him flat on his back, staring at the ceiling as Mitz makes biscuits on his stomach.
“At least if I’m alone, I don’t have to pretend I’m fine.”
The microwave beeps.
Bracing myself on the counter, I force an inhale through my nose.
Hold it.
Release.
Removing the food, I approach him and squat to his level.
“Eat.”
He rolls his head to glare at me.
“No.”
I set the food down and Mitz leaps off to investigate.
His eyelids droop.
“I hate that you’re here.”
I sigh, “Yeah, I know.”
But he rambles on like he didn’t hear me. “Because as soon as you leave, I’ll miss you.”
He’s slowly murdering me.
