You come over on Fridays, when my parents are on their weekly dinner date, and we raid my mother's cupboards and eat everything we can hold until we can't move, and then we fall onto the couch, groaning, and watch TV. And every week, once you've fallen onto the couch, you shift closer and closer to me until your head of golden hair is in my lap.

We used to fall asleep on top of one another on the couch or on the floor half-in sleeping bags, but now I always pull you upstairs to my bed. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night or early in the morning, and I see you even before I've opened my eyes and turned over to look through the dark.

Lately, though, I lie awake waiting until you're asleep. And I have to get up and go to the bathroom on the other side of the house, so you won't hear me as I get rid of everything we ate. I don't know if hiding from you is working. I thought it was but now I'm not sure. I think you see everything, but sometimes you look like you wish you didn't. And sometimes you get a look on your face like shutters banging closed over a window, and I know you don't want anyone to see what you're thinking. Usually I know anyway. But not now. Your eyes are made of something else.

It's not pity. I hate pity, and pity from you would kill me, I know it.

If you get what's going on you haven't said it to me. You won't; not now; even if you hate it as much as me, I think you understand: we talk about everything but I can't talk about this.

I talk about it to myself though. I don't really want to, but I can't seem to help it. I tell myself it's ok even though I know it's not. What I'm doing is like the only door that's open in a house of locked doors.

Tonight I think maybe you're faking, because you're not twitching like you always do when you're asleep. At school you were quiet. And you didn't laugh at my sharp words and jokes, like they were hurting you, too. Or like you thought they were hurting me? You said my name and cut off. But tonight you kissed me, so you're not mad, are you?

You're so still. Even if you're not really asleep, your eyes are closed, which means I get to watch you. I get to look at all the places on your face no one else gets to see, like your eyelids, which I love. I've never told you how beautiful they are and I can't now because it feels too late and too soon at once.

Except you're asleep, or pretending, and so maybe I can. But as soon as I open my mouth I hear my voice saying the words and it's too much. I feel that free-falling thing I get right before I stand on the bathroom scales. So I touch your face instead; I push your hair off your cheek, and tuck it behind your ear, in place again. I think about kissing you. I try to stay in bed. I try so hard, Brittany. But I have to get up. I have to. I can't catch my breath unless I do.

In the bathroom I don't look at the mirror. I think I'll see your face looking at me or that if I see my own face it'll be even worse. I do what I need to do and then it's like I'll be able to sleep next to you again. But when I open my bedroom door you're lying facing me and your eyes are open.

"Are you ok?"

Your words are so quiet and I almost miss them. I know what they are though, and would have even if I hadn't heard. What else can you say? You've said nothing else up until now and I don't think there are any other words that would make sense.

I answer you with a nod and climb back into bed. I don't pull away when you wrap your arms around me. Right now I'm not sure what scares me more. What I've done or that you can't fix it.