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I attempted suicide too. I swallowed a bottle of pills too. I set the whole thing up, so it would look like an accidental overdose, so my parents would have a story they could handle.
But I didn't time things right. Or maybe I timed them wrong on purpose. I don't know anymore.
I'm glad I'm here.
Alive.
In your apartment.
Connected.
That's the problem. I'm too connected. And there's nowhere to go if I don't tell him.
This is the perfect time.
The only time.
I have to be brave, to give him the chance to digest this information, decide what he wants to do with it.
I can't stay unless I tell him.
I can't leave unless I tell him.
"You don't have to say anything else," Patrick says.
I shake my head.
He rests his palm on my cheek, wipes a tear with his thumb. "You don't. Whatever it is, you don't have to tell me."
I did the same thing.
I'm sorry.
I'm stealing your pain, making it about me. I hate when people do that. It's the worst thing in the world.
"If you want to go, I won't stop you," he says. "But I don't want you to go."
"But—"
"You want to be here?"
I nod.
"I want you here. Don't over-think it." He wipes another tear with his thumb. "Whatever it is, we can talk about it. Or not talk about it."
"You're that agreeable?"
"No. I like your tits that much."
A laugh breaks up my tears.
His voice shifts back to a serious tone. "I haven't talked about my sister with anyone. This is new for me too. I'm scared too."
"You are?"
"Terrified."
"I don't want to hurt you," I say.
