Finally an update, but it may be the last one. I put a lot of work into writing this, but I haven't been motivated at all in the last few months, obviously. So, motivation might be in order. Guys.

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I don't believe in saints, obviously, but if they do exist then Stan must be the patron saint of sad Jewish boys who have lost everything and can't do anything but lay in bed for three weeks. Or something like that. Even if he'd never be official, I already worshiped him. He was pretty good at figuring out when I needed him to hold me, and when I wanted to be completely alone. Even better, he was also good at not being offended if I snapped at him or ignored him, or any of the other awful things I must have done in my stupor.

And that's really all it was, ultimately. I barely moved for days on end, doing very little beside sleeping and crying. Stan would force me to eat something, and every few days he'd take me to have a bath, but half of the time I hardly even noticed him doing these things. I completely shut down. I was nothing but an empty shell.

I think everyone was worried that I might kill myself, but I didn't even have the energy to think about it, much less do it. The only two things that existed to me were my grief, and the comfort of having Stan there when I needed him. Even so, some days I barely registered his presence. If he was bothered by that, he never let it show.

As the days wore on the depression started to loosen its hold on me bit by bit, but there were times when it came back with a vengeance, spurred on by some forgotten memory.

One night, a few weeks after Ike died, I had this dream that I was back in my mother's kitchen, helping her cook dinner. I was a teenager in the dream, and I was telling her about my day: my grades, and what I'd gotten up to with my friends after school. Ike was setting the table behind us, listening in and throwing half-hearted jests my way from time to time. Eventually my father came home and joined us at the table, and we sat down as a family to enjoy our meal together.

Somehow this domestic scene was so much worse than all the terrible things my mind had conjured up in previous dreams. As I awoke I began to cry, desperate to hold onto the pieces of the dream that were slipping away from my mind swiftly: the soft orange glow from the sunset, the sound of my mother's voice, which I could hardly remember when I was awake. This time instead of being tortured by grotesque, exaggerated versions of things I'd experienced, it was the reality of what I'd lost that hurt so badly.

I curled up on my side and covered my mouth with my hand, hoping the sound of my crying wouldn't wake Stan up, but I heard him shifting beside me almost instantly, and ran his hand gently across my shoulder before wrapping it around me. I'd become so needy that he was always on alert. Poor Stan.

"Hey, it's ok," he said, spooning behind me and pressing his face to the back of my neck. He sounded like he was still half asleep. "Talk to me," he said.

"I want my mom," I wailed, unable to restrain myself.

I heard his breath hitch, and he froze for a second before he rolled me onto my back, and leaned over me to plant kisses across my face. It took me a moment to register that he was crying, too.

"What can I do?" he asked. Somehow that only made me cry harder.

"Nothing!" I moaned, "You can't fix it. Nobody can. I want to go home, Stan! Oh god!"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I'm so sorry Kyle. I want to make you feel better, but I'm fucking useless."

He looked so tired, and I realised for the first time how much taking care of me was weraing on him. His muscles tensed, as if he was about to move away, but I held him tightly against me.

"No, don't. Don't get up," I said, pressing my face against his arm, "You can't – No one can fix this, Stan, but you just... I need you. You're the only thing keeping me afloat."

He sighed with what sounded like relief, and pressed his face into my hair.

"I'll do anything you need me to," he said, "Even if it only helps a little."

We held each other for a while, but finally he pulled back and smiled shakily at me. He tried to dry both of our faces with his hands, but it was futile since neither of us had really stopped crying.

"I do need you," I whispered, "You have no idea how much I need you."

"Yeah, I – it's the same for me. I never thought I'd feel this way about anyone."

"Show me. Please," I begged, stroking his cheek.

It took him a moment to realize what I was asking, and when he did he looked sort of terrified. But he nodded anyway, and leaned down to kiss me.

I'll spare all the gory detail because, well, this isn't that kind of a story, but there are things that happened that first time that I will never forget. The tenderness with which he touched me. The expression on his face as he slid into me. The way we locked eyes just before he came. The way he smiled uncertainly when it was all over, as if he was unsure that he was allowed to feel happy about it while we were both still so emotionally drained.

Sex with Stan was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. He was clumsy, awkward, and a little overeager. It was over practically before it even began, and I know that embarrassed him to no end.

But it was also the sweetest experience of my life. I'd never been with someone I loved. Hell, I'd never loved anyone the way I love him. Though his movements were clumsy, they were also slow and gentle, and though that might not have been what I usually preferred during sex, it was definitely what I needed at that moment. He was perfect, and so sweet.

He held me afterward, still trembling from the experience, and I could feel his pulse pounding against my fingertips where they were pressed against his neck.

"When I said I needed you, you know… I meant to say I love you," he said, his face pressed against my collarbone. I could feel his already warm face heat up against my skin.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And I um…. I know this is a lot to lay on you, but I want you to come with me when I go back home. I mean… even if you don't feel the same way about me. I don't want to leave you here, after… um. Everything. I know I can't replace what you've lost, but I want... I'll do whatever I can to make you happy."

I ran my hand up his back and across his neck, finally burying my fingers in his hair. I planted a kiss on the side of his face. It felt like this should be some kind of revelation to me, but it wasn't. Even if he'd never put it into words before, I already knew how he felt.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?" he said, lifting his head to look at me.

"Yes. I want that. And I don't want you to think – I mean… I feel the same way. I mean I do feel the same way. About you, I mean."

He laughed, but he looked relieved.

"Shut up," I said, and pulled him down for a kiss. He knew what I meant, anyway.

Alas, as much as we'd sometimes like it to, sex does not heal a broken heart. Not that Stan didn't try. After he'd gotten his initial fear out of the way, he was suddenly unable to keep his hands off me. It was comforting at least to know how much he wanted me, and it was a welcome way to ease some of my tension, but there were still nights when I couldn't look at or speak to anyone, not even him.

And the prospect of leaving Europe completely behind me and starting anew was just as depressing as it was exciting. It would never, ever be the same to me, I knew, but there had always been that little thought in the back of my head that I could return to Warsaw after the war ended. I'd be giving up that possibility if I left for America. Still, I couldn't see that going very well for me, and I couldn't spend the rest of my life living in the past. I'd never get my home back, my friends were probably all dead, and I'd never see my family again. The only thing that was left for me in Poland was the ghost of what my life had once been.

"You'll love Colorado," Stan said to me one night, his sweaty skin pressed against mine.

"You think so?" I asked. I had my doubts.

"Well," he said, looking concerned, "I hope so. I mean I know you're used to living in a city and all, but it's really beautiful in the mountains."

"Cold though, I bet."

"Yeah. I guess so. And the snow drifts, well..." he trailed off, realizing he wasn't making a very good case, "But hey, I'll buy you a really warm hat."

I smiled, because when I was wading through the snow drifts in Germany, running for my life, there were times when the only thing I wanted in the world was a really warm hat. I told him that, and I could feel him smiling as he pressed his face against my neck.

"Anyway, I'll keep you warm," he said.

And though I knew he wouldn't always be able to, I knew he'd try his best.