I told him to turn down the music and he obliged, ears perked like a dingo because he thought I may say something: either a brilliant revelation or a dumb story about something that happened at school, but neither avenue was open. I had nothing. Wanted to feel nothing.
I told him to turn it off, just turn it off.
"You don't want any music?" He was so shocked. That's how he figured something was wrong with me. I never asked for this before. I've never asked for silence. I was hoping it would balance out the screaming in my head.
He asked, "Are you okay, Stan?"
I should have fucking told him the truth. I should have said that I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, my skin stung, my bones scraped against each other.
But I didn't.
I said, "I'm fine. I just have a headache."
In that moment, things were peaceful. It was a nice drive home. We had a good day.
As we drove, I focused on the birds sitting on power lines, little dark lumps on electric strings in the sky.
We went apple picking that day and he lifted me up to get to the best ones and later in the afternoon it became chilly so we had hot cider and I remember he was wearing a black sweater and the side of his cheek was shining with autumn sweat and I loved him so much.
I didn't want to hurt him by telling him I was hurting.
We were having a good day.
And I had a problem with it.
I wish I could see birds again.
I wish I could see Kyle again.
I miss him.
He's probably forgotten about me.