writings, three

h— loves hg. some people know this, or have guessed it, or joke about it, but only h— knows the depth of her affections. it borders on obsession sometimes, how much she thinks about him, how much effort she puts into pretending not to care, when she actually watches hg sleep at night and clips a lock of hg's hair while he's unaware and keeps it locked in her diary. it borders on obsession, the way she watches hg's mouth move, the way she lingers outside the bathroom when hg showers, just listening. it borders on obsession when she starts stealing hg's things, little things, but it teeters on the edge and falls completely into the abyss of obsession when she starts hating the others because hg smiles at them (don't fucking touch him).

but h— will never tell. and no one will ever find out.

--

E— knows H— doesn’t mean to be cruel. Despite his jokes and his loud complaints and his nattering on about his beauty, he’s normally a very good friend. His friendship, once won, is deep and fierce. He is charismatic and aggressive and unafraid of saying things that make others stop and double-take. E— has always admired him, but he’s always been a little afraid too. He’s not sure how to be someone H— admires in turn, instead of someone easily dismissed.

The problem with H— is that he’s careless with people he doesn’t treasure.

H— is careless with E— and the knowledge that E— is not one of the ones H— cares most about hurts more than H—'s thoughtlessness.

--

“It’s 11:11,” she says. “Make a wish.”

K— smiles half-heartedly and remains silent. She frowns at him and tugs at his hand, pulling it into her lap. “You’re no fun,” she sighs, the crease of her brow weary, as if it is too much effort to fight this. She’s tired. She’s learned better.

K— shakes his head at her. “You know I don’t believe in things like that.” He doesn’t look at the white room around him and tries not to think about the thin blanket pulled up over her legs. He ties not to think about this uneasy feeling of not belonging. He focuses on her face instead, unfamiliar in its weariness. She squeezes his hand, chastising.

“I wish you would.” Her voice is soft. “It would make me happy.”

He pulls his hand away, fighting shame. “Fine, I’ll make a wish.” He attempts a smile but it feels like a lie when she returns it with one of her own.

“You’re a good son, K—,” she says.

K— lets his gaze fall to the sterile, white hospital floor, bile rising in his throat. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he wants to leave, because he doesn’t belong anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he’s sorry, he doesn’t know her anymore.

He can’t tell her that he wishes he were home, instead.