A/N: Thank you again for your comments! I love seeing your insights on this. I know it's heavy so thank you for sticking around. The homophobia is terrible but a reality, sadly. My niece told me how a month ago two of her friends were outed by their former friend group and basically shunned. It's absolutely terrible that this still happens in 2020. Disgusting even. For this chapter, there is a a hefty dose of homophobia now that Cloud's back in school so I'm just giving everyone a heads up. Also potential triggers would be suicidal ideation and self harm ideation.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Willkommen Zurück

We're just two lost souls

Swimming in a fish bowl

Year after year

Running over the same old ground

What have we found?

The same old fears

Wish you were here

Dad took me to school; I guess he learned from some of his mistakes. He didn't mention Sephiroth on the ride, but insisted on asking about Reno- even going as far as mentioning we should go to his game on Saturday. Like he memorized the baseball schedule. And I snapped my eyes at him in the driver's seat. Focused on the road ahead. Wearing a blue and white pinstripe suit and a hamburger tie I bought him for his birthday three years ago. And I wonder...if he knows more than he's letting on. Or maybe there's an idea in his head, like a seed planted months ago when Reno first walked through my house. That's been watered with every mention of his name from my mouth. And now it blossoms in his head and he doesn't know why.

Two parts of me at war.

One screaming to tell him the truth. The other with a needle and thread ready to sew my lips shut.

"You should join a sport, buddy," he says suddenly and I scrunch my nose- he's using Reno to manipulate me.

"Too late for that," I respond with a loud exhale.

"Never too late! Maybe try something like volleyball?"

"Too short."

"Bullshit, you're, like, what, 5'11?" he bites back, he throws me a look which I return with pinched eyes because he doesn't even know how tall I am. "Fine fine. Lacrosse? Like Cid?"

Another name like a bullet in my skull.

"Dad, please," I beg, "drop it?"

He sighs, "Okay, I just… I want you to get into a good college. You want off this shithole Island, right?"

The three cigarettes in my pocket suggest I don't leave this island alive. But if I make that comment, he'll jump off this car line and drive me straight to the psych ward. And I did a lot of burying to keep that month of my life hidden in a lockbox in my head. I slouch in my seat, wrinkling my uniform, and stare out the front window with a vexed look upon my face to signal the end of the sports conversation.

"Maybe we should get you in a martial art, like karate," he muses to himself, "Fuck this school. Yeah. Maybe some Brazillian jiu jitsu?"

A smile cracks along my face, "If you stop asking me about sports, I'll consider getting into Taekwondo."

"Why that one?"

"Don't know, anything to get you off my back?"

We both exchange a look and laugh. "You're mother's gonna kill me. But," he gestures along my face, "Seems like someone can't help getting punched in the face?"

My cheeks flush, "Wow, you actually noticed? Shocking."

"Yeah, bad parenting right here," he grumbles, shaking his head at himself, "Wanna talk about it?"

I grimace, "Nah, I already processed this. Talking about it will just be damaging at this point…"

His nod seems disappointed. Sad even. That maybe he missed an opportunity to be a father. Teach his son how to fight- little did he know, Barret and Cid already taught me how to defend myself. If I wasn't on drugs, my face wouldn't look this bad. Then again, if I wasn't on drugs, and blacked out drunk, I wouldn't have put myself in that situation in the first place. And maybe there's a lesson I need to learn somewhere in these cuts that throb with regret.

He drops me off at school; tells me he'll pick me up so we can get mom together at Newark Airport. And he has this hopeful look on his face as he drives away. Like suddenly everything is going to be different, like he threatened a month ago, with minimal effort on our part. For a minute, I think he might be right. Then I toy with the wrinkled pack of smokes in my pocket. And consider all the other times mom came home. How success always gave way to failure.

I ducked behind the school, where trees line the brick walls, and pull out one of my almost crushed menthols. Spark and inhale. I scan the parking lot, cars already pulling in- mostly seniors, who do not regard me as the filter into the school. I'm a junior, not worth their time. The few juniors who are able to drive usually park on the side street- though certain people get here early enough to steal a spot. And I see neither the black BMW with Tennessee plates or the 2003 hand-me-down Lexus. And I wonder which I'm waiting for under dead branches.

No, I know who I hope to steal aching looks from across the black tar lot.

We have almost every class together.

I curse. I have to see him all day. And while he's been in my thoughts, my dreams, on the tip of my tongue, I haven't thought about the reality of seeing him. The last image, a broken boy, wearing my favorite hoodie. With a face flushed with sadness under the bitter light of the moon. Handsome even when falling apart.

Fuck.

I laugh through my inhale, coughing up smoke, at the absolutely shitty timing of it all.

I flick the cigarette away.

Two minutes to midnight.

And the day's only begun.

I walk into the school, the hall an eerie silence as the time ticks the seconds to homeroom. Some stragglers running towards their classrooms. Me, gliding down the gray lockers against red walls, like rows of corpses lying in their own blood, and I'm next in line for the shooting range. As I turn the corner where my locker rests, I hear the squeak of dress shoes against linoleum floors echo away. I look up to emptiness. But a vortex in my chest warns me before I see the graffiti.

Kill Yourself,

I check the time on my phone. 7:28am.

I wonder if they got here early just to decorate my locker for my arrival. How thoughtful. How unoriginal. How it hurts my head without even trying. And I already want another smoke.

"Does it count as suicide if you smoke yourself to death?"

I hate how his words fall on me like raindrops.

I forget why I even came to my locker and just B-line for my homeroom. Not prepared, at all. I try to focus on the path I have to take. If he's smart, he would have moved his seat as far away from me as possible. I just need to walk to the right side of the class, down the first row, where my seat next to the window should remain empty. Stare through the splotchy glass for thirty minutes. I repeat the path in my head as I walk down the hall, until I have it memorized like my own name. Make it to the door right as the bell rings, Hojo and I meet at the threshold as he tries to close the door.

His black eyes staring up at me with a twitch. "Mr. Strife."

I don't say anything, he moves to allow me in and I dodge detention. The whispers erupt as soon as I take my first step. And I follow the path I created in my head. But feel twenty four sets of eyes crawl up my spine. I try to ignore them. Think about anything else but my brain decides to blank at this exact moment. And their words are vile. Inquisitive. Hollow. Some pitiful. Empathetic. But I focus only on the white scuffs on my shoes and how I have to put one foot in front of another for five rows down.

I stop short.

Dart my narrowed eyes.

Reno sits in the chair next to mine, slouched in his seat like he could give a fuck, tapping his pen to his lips. And I could feel his stare through the storm. I try to scan the open sea of navy uniforms for another empty seat, but the two I spot are immediately robbed with taupe messenger bags and silent warnings. And he did this on purpose. The first one in; he had his pick of the entire room.

I guess we have to figure out some details of the divorce. But not right now. I take my seat, and remain glued to the window. The muted gray clouds daring to open. And I feel as God Damn destroyed as the sky. Thunder in my head and lightning in my stomach. Marathon winds tearing through my chest.

I bite my thumbnail.

And I know he keeps snapping his eyes at me.

I want to tell him, so bad, that he's making this so much worse right now. And I can't focus on how much I both hate and miss him, when I have the boys in front of me looking back with Cheshire smirks whispering plots against me, while the knowledge of my best friends' hating me still burns. Melting reason.

I can hear the words press against his lips. And I close my eyes to stop the clouds from opening. And salt water rain to fall from my eyes. Because crying at school would just be the last push all these demons around me need to unhook their jaws and spew their filth with the volume of a tornado.

And I try to count the seconds as if they give me purpose.

I curse my last name. I curse his, too. I curse the lack of surnames that start with S in this school. I curse the teachers and the unoriginality.

In Math, I sit behind him, trying to avoid sideways glances in my directions as Gast tries to go over sin, cos, and tangent. And I have no idea what any of it means. There's triangles on the board. I have to solve for x. A piece of paper hits me in the head. The boys in the opposite corner chuckle when the head of the classroom has his back turn. I stare at the ball of paper, with faded pencil marks, and I'm about to grab it when Reno slams his shoe on the offending object. He picks it up, looks at Gast who is engrossed with helping Cissnei on the board, and chucks the paper back at the group as if he's pitching a ball. Slams against the face of Kadaj who yelps like a bitch. Reno gets his ass back in the seat, his eyes daring the boys to retaliate, before Gast could turn back around.

And I bite my tongue.

Because fuck that was hot.

But in English, he sits next to me. As if any other day of the year. And I keep offering him muted glares to move his desk further away. But he pretends he doesn't notice. And I pretend to ignore the girls who sit behind us. Whispering entirely too loud about the picture they saw on myspace. And if I really was gay. And who the boy on top of me was- they had never seen him. And my stomach swirls with all the anxiety. Resting my head in my hand and begging my body to not give me away. Matthews calls on me to offer my analysis of the poem I chose. I tremble when I take the paper out of my folder, marked to hell, and all the words look like an alien language even though it's my handwriting. I feel my hand trembling. And I'm afraid if I open my mouth to speak I might actually throw up.

When I notice Reno's hand fly up, "Uh, actually, I wanna go!"

Matthews arches an eyebrow, shocked, Reno never participated in English. "Okay...what poem and poet did you choose? What do you think is the meaning of the poem? And What lines support your analysis?"

"Aight, so, I chose e. - sick name by the way- and his poem I carry your heart with me."

I roll my eyes.

"First off, what's this guys issue with capital letters?"

"Mr. Sinclair, please," Matthews sighs, "We don't have time for your tangents."

"Right, okay," he snickers, "so, this is obviously a love poem. This guy- I mean the speaker- wants the subject of the poem to know, with absolute certainty, that he's in love with them. That he doesn't fear the future or fate or the world because that...uh..bond is real fucking- I mean, really strong and sh- I mean stuff. And even if the speaker, like, messes up real bad, like I mean really bad, he hopes the subject of the poem knows he carries their heart with them. Always."

Matthews has his hand on his face, shaking it back and forth slowly. "Wow, okay. What lines support that articulate analysis?"

"Uh, the whole thing, yo."

"I need lines, Mr. Sinclair."

Reno huffs loudly, "Fine. Okay so. This whole section-" He hunches over his desk, finger on the stanza. But he isn't looking at the words on the page; I see his blue eyes break through a mess of red, resting on me . And he's memorized this part of the poem as if he's read it over and over and over again, until it's tattooed on his brain. " i fear/ no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want/ no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)/ and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant/ and whatever a sun will always sing is you."

I resent how he tries to direct those words to me like no one else exists in this prison. Like his apparent girlfriend isn't sitting directly across from us, with stars in her eyes, thinking those words he stole were for her. Even when he sits back up straight, his eyes linger on me crumbled form for a half a second, before he returns to Matthews with a smirk. And if I didn't have sand in my mouth, I would tell him he needs to stop. If he gives himself away, would there have been a point? Does he even realize that what he's doing isn't helping? No. He thinks he's saving me from bullies, from teachers, from myself.

But it works. Matthews calls on another victim and I thumb through the papers of poems to find the one Reno chose. And feel something in my chest rumble to life, even for a moment, as I silently mouth the words, so I know how they feel around my lips. Wonder if he did the same.

And think about how when we kissed we created our own poetry.

And the thought of him doing that with anyone else makes me sick.

Unfortunately, that feeling follows me to History. But I'm offered a reprieve, with Reno behind me, I focus on the scratches on the wooden desk. Try to follow Turnell's lecture on the Great Depression. But Reno's eyes burn holes in the back of my head. And I feel him crawling down my back. Like he's trying to infect my bloodstream. I wonder how he could even still think of me, when I broke all the rules Saturday night, and placed my own lips on someone else's. Not a girl. Not someone we could excuse. That would only help our stance in the world. I fucked up. I set up the explosion, he just tried to get out of the way before we were both buried in the rubble. What am I really mad at? Who am I really mad at? For a minute I think of writing him a note, but I don't have the words.

In Spanish, I miss his existence with a crushing realization. No longer able to focus on my opposing feelings for the red-head as a distraction. Just me and a bunch of predators that circle me like I'm a potential kill. All these idiots, who can't even string Como te llama together figured out what maricon means in Spanish. And when we are forced to break into pairs practice for the oral exam on Friday, Loz seems all too happy to swing around in his seat, an audacious smile stretched across his face.

He clears his throat, "uh, a res es ma-we-con."

I cock my head to the side, "Excuse me?"

"You as ma-riii-can?" He sounds like unflavored white rice. But he laughs like he dropped a bomb of an insult.

I shake my head, and Spanish has never been my subject, so I go with my butchered second language. Sighing heavily, dusting off the cobwebs. "Ich werde deinen Vater ficken." Loz looks around, grunting with an unattractive huh. I continue, my tone even, bored of this exchange already, "mach dich zu meinem stiefsohn. Zicke."

"The fuck you say to me, fruit cake?" He snarls.

"Du hast einen kleinen schwarz." I retort. Noting that my accent sounds out of practice and if opa was around, he would smack me upside the head of mutilating his mother tongue. Scold me for not keeping up with my study of the language. I told him to blame the school for not offering German, but he called me a wertlos kind. And that hurt more than whatever bastardization of the Spanish language this fool in front of me could possibly come up with. And even if my inflections don't sound as harsh, Loz turns away, grumbling slurs under his breath.

I'm exhausted by lunch.

Find my place on the sill of the handicap bathroom, blowing black smoke out the window. One cigarette remains.

I've gone beyond anxiety. Or panic. There's something uncomfortable about that knowledge. Even in the throws of distress, when I'm shaking, vomiting, and even believing in my impending demise, I felt a semblance of life. Something for my weak will to hold on to. And before I dropped to the bottom of the well, I found a way to pull myself up. Whether I latched to a ledge covered with spikes, or found a hand to hold. I found the strength.

I'm empty now. The trembles that rocked my fingertips have quieted. And I no longer feel waves of nausea crash onto my body, pushing me into the ground. Just me, the toxins that fill my lungs, and the desolate bathroom. And I have nothing to hold on to. Everyone says rock bottom is where you find the foundation to steady your feet, but what if you never hit the floor. Just remain suspended between life and death. Somethings gotta give eventually. And what if I don't find a reason to keep going? What if the seconds prove too hard?

I close my eyes. Feel the struggling heat of the sun on my face. And it burns like hell.

The door opens as if someone yanked it with the force of a hurricane wind. And their footsteps are loud, squeak of Nike sneakers, but not heavy. And for a minute, I think a teacher finally got tired of smelling nicotine as it moves through the vents. But someone bangs on the locked door of the stall I'm in and I can tell from the three rapid knocks that Cid is on the other side.

But I don't say anything. And I think foolishly, that if I remain frozen in this spot he'll go away.

"I know you're in there, Cloud," he snaps, "Open the fucking door."

His breathing heavy.

But I'm the out who feels out of breath.

So I don't move.

"Come on, fuck," he curses, "we gotta fucking talk, man."

I note the edge in his voice dulls. He bangs again and the lock rattles like small doorbell rings. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for him to leave. But I'm met with the black behind my eyes and no words to form messages to a god that's forsaken me. He stops his assault on the door and I hear his body lean against it with a defeated sigh. He doesn't say anything for a while. I wonder why I can't bear the sight of him. I know he's wearing his gym clothes from the sneakers and bare legs that poke out from the bottom of the door. I know he can get away with this intrusion because his gym teacher is his lacrosse coach. But his time limited and he came to see me; I have nothing for him.

Finally he speaks with tension in his tone. "Nothing?" Another pause, "all this shit happening...you got nothing to say? To any of us?" I want to remind him that I called on Sunday. He ignored it. "Everyone's mad confused right now. Especially Tifa. Especially me." I never heard him sound so despondent. Not since we were outside Vinny's house the first day I ever spoke to him. Outside the window, where he cried on my shoulder and I felt bold enough to wrap my arms around him, even though I didn't have words of comfort.

"I thought we were best friends," he whispered bitterly, "Brothers, even. You always said that. I am supposed to be your best friend and you can't even talk to me right now? Fuck man. I should still be tight at you for the stunt you pulled on Saturday. You fucking bring my dad up? Swing at me?

"Were you worried I was gonna say something?" This time, he cuts his words like a knife. Toys with his next sentence. I don't even have a voice to beg for release. "You coulda told me, guy. You're my brother. I don't care but I need to hear it from you and not some stupid Myspace bullshit."

I don't know how to make the words come out of my mouth. Because I am not ready to give them life. Someone ripped away my chance to come out to my friends. To sit them down and tell them, with my own voice. Now my voice is gone.

"Nothing?"

And everytime he says that word, I feel like I'm falling into oblivion.

And part of me wants him to curse me out. To remind me of how much of a shitty friend I've actually been in the last two years. That he deserves more than someone who will harbor a secret and use it as a weapon at the most unfortunate times. Who will turn against him at the slightest inconvenience. I really want him to unleash his anger. Because the alternative, the reality, the slow lift of his body off the door. The pause where he stands in front of the door still hoping I will open and face him. To the sharp inhale where I can almost hear the sadness quake in his watercolor eyes. All of it, right now to the slow walk out of the bathroom, is devastating. And I consider opening the window just a bit more and letting my body fall to the garden below.

But I have one cigarette left.

And the Strifes don't waste.

I also need to get the fuck out of the bathroom before I give myself any good ideas. I try to remember other phrases that woman told me to hold on to when I feel this terrible. This close to giving up. But all I can think about, when the seconds get too hard, it's time to get some real help. I'm muted. Got no vocal cords. To ask for help. To curse God. To beg for forgiveness. I stomp through the hallways of the school, to get back to my locker. Chuck my books into the metal home and, I don't know, leave? I don't even know where my legs are taking me. I don't know if I have a motive for any of my actions right now.

The writing on my locker remains-

Except they managed to finish it off with the slur.

And it's both familiar and new. I've been told this all my life.

Kill yourself.

Like my mind doesn't have the option on repeat.

And the last time it was this loud-

I want something to hold on to-

I open my locker as if I'm trying to rip the door of its hinges.

And freeze.

"Maybe this is selfish,

but it's the way you make me feel when you're around."

I blink a few times to make sure I'm not hallucinating. Then shove my hand in my pocket where the pack crumble menthols which holds one last lifeline rests still. A laugh rumbles in the pit of my stomach. In the center of the metallic coffin, on top of my copy of The Catcher In the Rye, the next book on the reading list, a fresh pack of white Marlboro Menthols. I tentatively reach into my locker and feel my hands wrap around the rectangle package. The edges pushing into my skin. Reality.

"I'm alive again."

I note the ridiculousness of this concept. And the dangers of putting hope of staying alive in another human. But as I run my thumb across the plastic, hearing the crinkle, thinking back to all our conversations under black smoke, I consider this sudden rush of serotonin enough to keep me going. At least for a little while.

My dad picked me up early, so I missed Religion. He wanted to give me enough time to change out of my uniform before we had to get my mom from the airport. He talked to her before her flight and the excitement in her voice was contagious, he noted. And I could tell from the grin on his face when he pulled in front of the school that remained frozen right until we got onto the Jersey turnpike- then it fell to a scowl as he tried to bully all the yellow plated drivers to get out of his way.

In between honks of the horn and his cursing, he asked how school was. I dodged the obvious. The slurs. The threats. The pain that reemerged, a bit more manageable when I faced Barret in Gym- who stared at me while doing bicep curls and waiting for me to speak- to Physics when I had to sit next to Reno the entire time. Smell his cologne and close enough that we occasionally and "accidentally" kicked each other under the table.

School was fine. And he didn't press the matter.

When we got to the airport, my nerves began to spark. Couldn't tell if I'm excited or dreading the encounter with my mom. I recalled the last few times she went to rehab, that I could properly remember. All the same. Though, this will be the first time I see her as soon as she exits the plane. In the past, she reappeared at the house, as if she never left in the first place, goes into manic cleaning mode. With a bright smile on her slightly fuller face. Her eyes small and gray, rippled with crows feet as she couldn't contain her happiness. The image of a perfect mother. That would turn to dust. Her own routine.

But maybe, things could be different.

I watched her run down the tiled floor in her Louboutin heels echoing over the disembodied conversations that swirled around us. She struggled with balancing her rolling suitcase and large carry on bag that held her entire world. Sunglasses on top of brown hair up in a high ponytail, so her illuminated face could shine when she rested her gray eyes on her son and husband. My dad jogged over to help her, and I could hear the squeal when she threw her arms around his neck. Gripping him tightly afraid to let go. And I felt his strange embarrassment seeing my parents' affection on display. I dropped my eyes to my dirty converses and kicked at imaginary rocks while they flirted with one another like two school kids.

Mom managed to untangle herself from my dad, dropping all her items on him and walking to me next. With her black shoes, she reached my nose. And I looked down at her with a forced smile.

"Too cool to give your mom a hug?" She joked. I shrugged and she took it upon herself to wrap me in her skinny arms. She smelled like powder. Like sunflowers and daisies. Like she did at Easter parties. In pink floral dresses, holding my hand as we hunted for eggs my dad left on the lawn. And I surprised myself when I hugged her back. And she squeezed while whispering how much she missed me.

She pulled back to get a good look at me. And I recalled what my father told me- about how she could read me like an open book. And she glided her thumb over the purple bruise under my eye, tilted her head, then scanned my eyes for some kind of silent explanation. And I swear I heard her ask: someone broke your heart? And without thinking I nodded. Her first frown forms, but she doesn't push- there's time for that later.

The whole ride home, my parents listened to old CDs from the 80s and reminisced about early in their relationship. Every song held a story. And it made my stomach turn seeing them so blissful and happy. I kept my eyes on the window, admiring the New Jersey skyline of Billboards and factories blowing black smoke from their chimneys. The smell of trash filled my nose as we crossed the Outerbridge back into Staten Island. Dad picked up food from my mother's favorite restaurant on the island and we ate dinner for the first time as a family in months. And I tried to enjoy the scene. I really did. My mother awake and cracking jokes with my dad; who leaned towards her to occasionally play with her hair. While I pushed my food around my plate. Finding myself too torn apart to even eat. Hoping they would continue to be oblivious.

But my mom would dart her eyes at me. And I could see the waves of concern crashing in her. And I thought the fiery speech my dad laid on me the day before. About my bitchy attitude. And morose face. And how once again, the flashes of emotion that I can't hide under overgrown bangs reveal all the damage in my head. All I do is drag more people into my web of sadness. No wonder no one wants to be around me-

I convince myself.

When we finish dinner, I duck away in fear my mom- or dad- would want to continue this bonding. I feel used up. Like every bit of energy I have to engage in forced conversation has been depleted throughout the day. And if I can't manipulate my mother through guilt to let me stay home from school, perhaps for the rest of the life, I have to recharge for another episode of Hypocrisy, homophobia, and heartbreak.

I sit outside now, with my guitar on my lap, plucking away at the strings with no clear route or song in mind. I lean against the longue chair, staring at the fence that separates the two backyards; the wood dark with splotches of green. One of the panels cracked from repeatedly supporting Reno's weight when he insisted on hopping over. And I grip the neck of my guitar and allow this flare up of empty pain to cascade all over. Pinch my eyes close so I don't drag them to his window. I was good at avoiding the backyard, yesterday. But today, I feel compelled to breathe in the scent of Spring. Try to reclaim my place.

I hear the sliding door and I know it's my mother, bare foot, approaching me. I open my eyes, quickly wiping away the buds of tears that built up, before she can see. She's still in her outfit from the airport- black leggings and long tunic style white tank with a green sweater that brings out the flakes of emerald that freckles along her eyes. She helps herself to a seat on the same longue, and I sit criss-cross to give her room, with my instrument still resting in my lap. This time as a barrier in case she wants to try to hug again. I'm all tapped out of physical affection.

"What are you playing?" she asks.

"Just fucking around," I respond.

"Language, mister," she smiles and I drop my gaze to my fingers. "How's it been since I've been away?"

I shrug, suddenly flushed with embarrassment for not answering the phone when she had a minute to call. "Fine."

"You and dad getting along?" It's a trick question. But I nod like a liar anyway. "He told me what happened yesterday."

"It's whatever, I was being a shit-head," I admit. I finally bring my eyes to her and she's scanning my face with a troubled expression.

Then she gestures to the bruises, "What happened here then?"

"I was fu-messing around with the guys and fell into a table," which is a partial truth and not a flat out lie this time. But she reads my look like it's written in words across my face. "Seriously. It was my fault."

And she nods with wilted eyes and we fall into a tense silence. I realize now, I also don't know how to talk to her, because this has been one of the few times she's been lucid enough to speak in coherent sentences. The woman sitting in front of me is basically a stranger, someone I've encountered briefly throughout my life. And I from the unsettled look across her smooth features, I think she understands my reluctance to open up.

"Cloud," she says and her words drip with regret. "I know I haven't been the best mother to you. And I know I've made this promise to you before; but I am dedicated to fixing everything." She pauses as if waiting for me to say something- an argument? She's not wrong, she's given me this speech before. My chest tightens; I feel sick and I don't know how to tell her. That these flashes of uncertainty on my face don't have much to do with her. This is a drop in the well of my problems. I swallow back the brutal sadness that rumbles back to life. And she continues anyway. "One of the steps...is to make amends to the people you've hurt-"

"Mom," I tremble. She stitches her lips shut. "If it's okay...could we save this for another day?" I can hear my voice crack. I can see it in her eyes, the sudden fear. "I just...had a rough day at school and don't know if I can really...process this right now."

I'm grateful for her understanding in this moment, as she flashes me a soft smile and nods her head. I do note the gloom in her stormy grays. And I feel bad that I cut short her speech. But I'm not sure if I could handle someone unloading all their regrets on to me. Not right now.

"Okay, that's fine." And her tone is comforting, "Your dad is going away for business soon. Maybe we can have some mother son bonding? Watch some horror movies and make rice krispie treats like we did when you were younger?"

Damn, these two are desperate for my attention.

I should be flattered. But it feels so forced. Almost phony. But she's trying and I'm not sure if she has any other ways to relate to me. So I agree.

"Yeah, that sounds fine." I push the most sincere smile I could possibly muster up. And she mirrors the look, though I note it seems to form more easily. She ruffles my growing hair. Tells me she loves me in her first language, a special moment shared between the two of us. A reminder of the secret way we communicate. And I think about how she was reduced to tumbling those foreign words from her mouth almost three years ago.

I dwell on that for a moment as she goes to leave.

And then as if compelled by another voice, call out. "Mom…" she turns around. "What...step is making amends?"

She arches a brown eyebrow, "Nine. But all the steps are ongoing. Why?"

"Just curious…" my voice trails off.

"First step is arguably the most important. Admitting there's a problem."

I nod, "Yeah...yeah I know that one…"

She looks like she's going to continue, but then makes the decision to leave this conversation for another day. And I'm grateful for that; I need time to think. She disappears back into the house, presumably to join my father on the couch. Once I note the coast is clear, I pull out the last cigarette from the crumbled pack of smokes I found, deciding to save the fresh pack for another day. And I note the warm sensation that crawls along my nervous system when I think about making it to that day. Maybe the impossible is possible. If my mother can manage to fight off her addiction, maybe I can find it in me to fight another day.

The intense smell of Marlboro Reds finds its way to my nose. I snap my eyes to the fence. And I can't see him behind the wood structure, but from the way my chest opens, I know he's sitting there. Listening to me. He probably remembers today my mother came home; and if I know him, which I do, he wants to know how she's doing. I check my phone, forgetting my cigarette for the moment. No new calls. No new messages. From him. Keeping true to the unspoken promise, but it kills me. Like the faded exhale in the distance which hits my ears and holds all the words he wants to say.

I wonder if I'm being too hard on him. But I also can't deny the hurt I feel. Don't I get a say, for once, how his actions have affected me? Aren't they just as valid as his fears? Still.

Strike my match and light the cigarette between my lips. Let his smoke mix with mine for the moment. Strum the guitar to acknowledge his presence.

And with a broken voice, play Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.