Return

Please read the disclaimer before reading it! Present: self-flagellation, over-reflection, depression, panic attack.

It took at least a month before I physically recovered from that... incident. I stayed in the hospital for only a week and then went home. The stitches were removed, leaving only pink welts in place of the cuts, which I hated. Every day was hard. My stomach was no longer cramped from hunger, because Jennifer took care of me every day. She sat across from him and watched as the plate was slowly but surely emptied. Her silent, pain-filled gaze was stronger than any reproach.

The sharp sound of a notification brought me out of my train of thought. I almost dropped the phone. A message from Joseph: "We need to talk. Tomorrow. Just be honest. Will you come?"

For a month, Joseph was at a distance, sitting silently in a corner of the ward. He never came to me alone. And after discharge, he seemed to disappear. He blamed himself. I could feel it on my skin, even when we were just silent in the room. And now, "to be honest." I knew what it was about. About what happened between us in those dark months after the breakup with Jen. About my vile, tenacious feelings for Joseph, which mixed addiction and something that could not be described. That which, in desperation, was taken for love. Now I'm going to have to talk about how I messed up everything. Or is he? The fingers sent a message: "I'll be there.”

The next day, I stood at the familiar door, feeling my legs give out. A knock on the door. It opened quickly. The crease between my eyebrows, the shadows under my eyes— I clung to them with my gaze, just not to look into the eyes themselves.

— Come in, — the speech was low, without the usual mockery or jokes.

We went into the living room, the one where the rusty knife used to lie under the upholstery of the sofa. It was empty now. I sat down, huddled, and Joseph remained standing by the window, looking out at the bright sun. I was uneasy.

The silence became thick, oppressive. Joseph was the first to break down:

— How are you?— he asked without turning around.

—Alive,— I breathed, and it sounded unnatural. — Jenny... she's helping." I go to a psychologist.

Joseph began to pace the room steadily, unable to stand still.:

— In short, it's my fault. In everything. That I didn't catch up, that I let this... happen. For fucking coming to you when you were in this state. Because I was lonely myself. And because you were looking at me like that... —he broke off, grimacing.

His every word tightened the noose around his neck with a tight noose.

 A bitter lie flew out of my mouth, and my fists clenched so that my nails dug into the skin on my palms:

— I remember. You said from the very beginning... "nothing serious." I just... can't do it any other way. I cling to anyone who shows even a drop of warmth.

Quieting down, he tried to swallow the lump that had risen in his throat. The corners of the room parted, the wall swayed. Joseph closed his eyes:

—Oh my God, Anthony.

I felt his tired tone in my gut and turned my face away so as not to meet his gaze.

—Hey. Listen, I'm sorry.… It's not your fault, — he spoke confidently, with an even tone. — You need Jenny, and she needs you. You had a sincere love. Do you still love her?

—I love her,— I said softly. — I go to therapy. I try. But... I don't know how to live with this feeling for you.

Joseph sat down in the chair opposite. His gaze became focused, almost hard, but in the depths of his eyes there was a spark of something that was neither pity nor duty.

—Listen, — he began simply. — It's just… I'm older than you. I should have been smarter. And he behaved like the last idiot... Shit.

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

— Then, after the hospital, I also went to a psychologist. A couple of times. He asked me how not to hurt people like you. What to do if... if you're worried about a person," Joseph's speech faltered.

— You? To a psychologist? — My eyes widened.

— Why can't I?—He chuckled almost soundlessly. — I was sitting there pinning up my bangs and spinning in my head what a complete idiot I was. I'm tired of not knowing what to say. I want to...— he stammered, searching for the right words.

—You know what? — He took a deep breath. — Score. Forget about all this tinsel with guilt and "what happened". I'm tired of this.

—And... what then?— My voice sounded hoarse.

— We can't be in a romantic... Relationship. It's true. There's too much shit mixed up. But I want you to stay in my life. As a friend. A real one, not someone you can sleep with when both are feeling bad.

"We can't be in a romantic relationship... There's too much shit mixed in..."

The air in the room became thick. I tried to breathe in, but my throat constricted, letting out only a hoarse whistle. There was a ringing in my ears, and the sound of his voice became distant, muffled, as if from under water.

"He refuses. Forever. I'm a mistake. It can't be fixed. A friend? Lie. Pity. He sees. He sees everything. Shame." My thoughts raced. The ringing in his ears grew louder, drowning out the sound of his voice. The colors were too bright, and the light from the window was blinding. I tried to get up, but the world tilted, the floor went out from under my feet.

— En?—His voice sounded far away.

I couldn't see his face, just the blurred contours of the room. A step towards the door — I wanted to run, hide, disappear… But my legs gave way treacherously, grazing the edge of the carpet. His arms shot out to cushion his fall. I fell to my knees, and then I was completely covered. Every breath was a convulsive gulp— my lungs were burning.

— Hey! Anthony!

His hands grabbed my shoulders, hard, hard, preventing me from falling face-first to the floor. That touch was the last spark. His body shook. Not just shaking— but convulsive, uncontrollable shaking, like an electric shock. Breaking free of his grip, I crawled back a couple of steps, pressing my back against the wall, and put my head in my hands.

—Don't touch me! — It came out more like a groan. — It's... bad. I can't... breathe. Heart…

The tears flowed by themselves, mixing with snot and saliva. I was a humiliatingly wet, shaking lump on the floor, and I couldn't do anything about it. He saw everything.

And then Joseph pulled me towards him with a jerk. Firmly, almost roughly, pressing my head against his shoulder, and covering the back of my head with his large palm.

His voice was buzzing right in my ear, low and insistent. "Breathe." Just breathe. I'm here.

The smell of his clothes, familiar and foreign at the same time, created a sense of security. His hands felt the warmth of his body through the cotton fabric of his T-shirt, and it was so real and tangible. He was scared too. His pulse was beating fast and hard.

The panic that had engulfed me began to subside, turning into rare gasps. The air finally went into his lungs, burning and soothing at the same time. The tears subsided. It only felt like the hard surface of the floor below us and his confident arms around us were becoming the only points of support.

I don't know how long we sat there. Time has disappeared. There were only his hands and the slow, heavy pounding of his heart, which I listened to like a metronome. Then it became easier to breathe. I didn't open my eyes — I was afraid that everything would come back. He waited. When the eyelids finally opened, the room was just as bright. Joseph was staring at the wall, giving me space. I moved, and he immediately loosened his grip, but he didn't take his hand away.

— Let you go? — he asked softly.

I shook my head. Weakly. But he understood.

—Okay,— he hugged me a little tighter. — Okay.

The panic receded, leaving behind a strange and almost soundless void. There was a mug of cold tea on the windowsill. I don't remember if he brought it before or after. The room smelled of dust and his clothes—tobacco, old wood, something warm.

Then, finally, I made a weak movement myself — I tried to pull away, lean on my own palm. Joseph immediately let go, moved away, giving space. His face was serious and tired.

— Thank you,— I breathed, not looking at him.

— You're welcome,— he said, getting up.

His tone was casual, as if nothing had happened. And in this mundanity, I felt a strange relief.

—I'll get you some water,— he said, heading for the kitchen. —And call Jen.Tell that... that you're okay, but you're going to be late.

He pulled out his phone with difficulty. Jennifer answered on the second ring. Her voice had a distinct note of alarm.

— It's okay, Jen,— I said, and to my surprise, I sounded almost normal. — Just... a long conversation.I will soon. Yes, with Joseph. Everything is fine. Don't worry.

A new wave of exhaustion washed over us when we said goodbye. Joseph had already returned with a glass of water and handed it to me.

— She's your anchor,—he stated softly. "Hold on to her. That's right.

I nodded understandingly and took a few sips. The cold water burned my throat, but it was incredibly invigorating.

—So,—he began, not looking at me. — The plan failed miserably. My joint. I didn't take into account... everything.

He trailed off, and then continued:

— Therefore, a new plan. No heavy talking today. When you're ready, I'll call a taxi and send you home to Jenny. That's it. No scenes, no showdowns.

He spoke with the same new, unaccustomed directness. There was no hint of flirting or gambling. He was a tired but determined adult who took responsibility for a situation that he had confused himself.

— And then?— I asked quietly.

—Then...—he looked at me. There was no pity or tenderness in his eyes, which was so scary to see. There was a tired clarity.

—I'll call you later. In a couple of days. I'll ask you how you are. And if you want, we can try to talk again. Not here. Maybe on neutral territory. He pauses for a moment. —Or in front of Jenny... Fuck, I don't know. It's just... not here.

It wasn't something I wanted or feared. It was just the next step. Clear, understandable, devoid of emotional overload.

— Okay,— I agreed. There was still a vague emptiness inside, but no longer an abyss.

— Okay,— he repeated.

I finished the water in silence, and then I said I was ready. He called a taxi and walked me to the door. As I was about to enter the stairwell, his voice stopped me.:

— En.

I turned around.

— Write the way home. At least once every ten minutes. Just so I know, —he smiled awkwardly out of the corner of his lips.

— Of course,— I nodded.

—And... hold on,— he said simply, and closed the door.

The taxi sped through the night city. I looked out the window at the flashing lights and sent Joseph short messages: "Out." "I'm driving along the avenue." "Half the way." Each one received an instant, concise answer: "OK." "I see." Other people's windows were floating outside the window. Some of them had lights on, where they ate, watched TV, and lived. The glass vibrated with the speed. I leaned my forehead against it and closed my eyes.

Jennifer was waiting for me at home. She didn't ask any questions—she just hugged me, absorbed my fatigue with her whole body and quietly said, "Go take a shower. I'll turn on the movie."

I emerged from the bathroom, shivering slightly from the cold tiles, and settled down on the bed. After a moment, her body gently clung to me. My breathing was steady, familiar to every molecule of the air, a warm, slow rhythm that seemed to beat my heart.

She didn't ask anything. It was as if she knew without words: I didn't need a confession, not a debriefing, but this — silence, her presence, this island of calm in the midst of everything that was collapsing.

She was the one who sat across from me at the table, making sure I ate. The one who took me by the hand to a psychologist, just like I used to go to school. And for every minute of her patience, guilt grew in me. It's heavy and deaf, but it's not what it used to be—not self-loathing, but something else. Responsibility. The one Joseph was talking about, only now it was heading in the right direction.

A hand slowly reached behind her back, palm resting on her side. Under my fingers, I feel the warm fabric of my pajamas and the rhythmic rise of my ribs. I have to stand by her again.

The eyes closed. Jen was breathing next to him, and a movie was mumbling from the screen. My thoughts were melting away, and I fell into some dark, warm place where I didn't have to think.

***

I didn't fall asleep. At first, I thought it was just insomnia— it happens when you have too much in a day. I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks. There were seven of them. Then I lost my way and started over. On the seventh lap, it became clear that it wasn't about insomnia.

I listened to his breathing. Smooth. Deep. Sometimes I would sob in my sleep, short and puppy—like, and then my heart would skip a beat. I froze, afraid to breathe, waiting for him to calm down. He was calming down. I exhaled.

We were lying in the dark, and there were about twenty centimeters between us, but they felt like a chasm. I could reach out, touch his back, move closer, and sometimes I did. But now I just lay there and watched the moonlight creep over the wall, over his hair.

I looked at him and thought: What did he say to you? How did you feel when you were sitting there in his apartment? And why don't you tell me?

At some point, I realized that I was looking at the phone. It was lying on the bedside table, face down, a black rectangle in the dark. I looked at him for maybe five minutes. Then I picked up the phone, because if I don't text now, I'll suffocate. Pressing the screen flashed, I had to squint. Three o'clock in the morning. It's almost four.

Jen: You had it.

Joseph: Yes. I sent him home.

Jen: I know. He said.

Joseph: Are you angry?

I froze for a few seconds. Am I angry? That's not the word.

Jan: I'm afraid.

Joseph: What?

Jen: That you're going to... tighten it up again.

Joseph: I'm not procrastinating. I'm trying not to do any harm.

Jan: You're not doing well.

I sent it and closed my eyes. It was too harsh, but I didn't delete it. I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to know what it was like to sit and wait, wondering if he would ever come back. Or if he would come back as someone else. There was a long pause, and I thought he wouldn't respond. I counted to forty-two, assuming he was offended. Then, three dots appeared, followed by a message.

Joseph: I know. I started going to a psychologist. Because of this.

I almost dropped the phone.

Jen: Really?

Joseph: Seriously. They said I have lifeguard syndrome and border problems. Can you imagine?

Jen: I can.

Joseph: I'm not messing with him, Jen. Honestly. But if he wants to come, I won't kick him out. He's my friend. And your boyfriend. I want him to live. Even if I have to die from wanting to hug him when he falls apart again.

I was looking at the screen. The room was dark, but I wanted to turn away from the phone. Hide your face in a pillow, bury yourself, not see. Don't think. But my fingers were already picking up.

Jen: Do you love him?

Silence. One minute. Two. I was looking at "delivered". Then click on "read". The dot under the message was glowing blue, like a beacon. He saw it. He was silent.

Joseph: What do you think?

And everything. Neither yes nor no. Neither "it's none of your business" nor "I'm sorry, I'll fix it." Just a question that threw the ball back to me. Because he knew that I knew. And we both knew that it didn't solve anything. I put my phone face down on the windowsill, as if I could forget that.

And she sat down. She just sat on the bed with her legs dangling. She hugged herself. My stumps ached—always in the evening, but especially today. I wasn't paying attention. I'm used to it.

It was dark and quiet outside. Somewhere far away, the city was humming, but here, in our room, we could only hear his breathing. Smooth. Alive. I sat and stared at the wall. I was thinking about Joseph. That he's probably awake right now, too. He's sitting in his kitchen, smoking through the window, even though he promised to quit. Or he's lying there, staring at the ceiling, rereading our correspondence.

I didn't know what would happen tomorrow. I didn't know if I could look Anthony in the eye. I didn't know if I wanted to.

***

I woke up to the fact that the room was too quiet. It's not the kind of silence you fall asleep to — when you hear another person breathing, the sound of cars outside the window, the hum of the refrigerator. Another. Empty. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. I opened my eyes. Jen was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to me. The moonlight fell on her shoulders. I didn't know what time it was. There was no fire outside the window.

"Jen?"

She shuddered. Abruptly, with my whole body, as if I had electrocuted her.

"It's okay," she said, as if she'd been rehearsing the words. "Sleep."

The voice is steady. Dry. She lay down, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and turned her face to the wall. I could hear her breathing, too evenly, too carefully. I lay there and listened.

Twenty minutes passed. Maybe half an hour. I was almost falling back to sleep when I heard it. At first I thought it was just my imagination. A quiet, strangled sound. Then another one. And more.

She was crying into her pillow. Not the way they cry when they can. Without sobbing, without smearing tears. Quietly. Soundlessly. Her shoulders hardly moved, just a small, barely noticeable tremor.

My stomach clenched into a tight, painful ball. I didn't know what to do: she never cried except... That incident at the hospital.

"Say something. Give me a hug. Do something." But my body wouldn't listen. My gaze ran over her back and shoulders, and I felt like the last piece of shit. Because he brought her to this. My cuts. My silence. Hospital. My obsession with Joseph. This damn depression that she'd been carrying for years, not complaining, not giving up, just dragging on. And now she's crying into her pillow so I can't hear.

Unable to stand it, I moved closer. Cautiously, almost fearfully, he put his hand on her shoulder. She jerked, tensed.

—Jen,— began cautiously.

I'm pulled her by the shoulder, trying to turn her around. She resisted for a second, and suddenly went limp, rolled over, and buried her face in my chest. And she burst into tears. For real. Loudly, sobbing, without holding back. She clutched my T-shirt with her hands, clinging so tightly, as if she was afraid that I would disappear. All her armor, all her strength, all her damn self—control, crumbled in one second. So I just hugged her. As hard as I could. He held her close, buried his face in her hair, and inhaled the scent of her berry shampoo.

—Hush,— I said. —Hush, Jen. I'm here.

She was crying and saying something—through tears, through sobs, unintelligibly. All I could make out was "I can't do this anymore" and "I thought you were going to die." His hands tightened on her.

— I'm not going to die,— I blurted out, and I didn't know if I was lying or not. — I'm here. I'm not going to die.

She raised her head and looked at me. Her face is red and swollen, her eyes are completely wet, and her eyelashes are stuck together.

—Promise? — she asked in a whisper.

And I realized that I couldn't lie. I can't say yes if I'm not sure. She was looking at me. There was so much pain in her eyes that I thought I was going to fall apart myself.

— I'll try,— I finally said. — I'll try very hard.That's all I can promise.

She nodded. She lowered her head back to my chest. She sobbed a couple more times and then subsided. I stroked her head, running my fingers through her tangled hair, over her wet cheek, over her shoulder. Over and over again. Just stroking. Because I didn't know any other words.

— You're tired,— I said softly. — You're tired because of me.Sorry.

She shook her head.

— I love you,— I said.

She was silent. Long. It took so long that I started to think that I had said something wrong. It's too loud. It's too pretentious. It's too late.

I was about to open my mouth to take the words back, to say something different, more correct. She suddenly exhaled, and I felt the tension drain from her body. She didn't answer. She just snuggled closer. She wrapped her arm around me and hugged me, as if she wanted to become a part of me. My hair was tangled in my fingers, but my hands wouldn't stop. They were carried out from the top of the head down, along the back of the head, along the neck. Over and over again.

"Jen?"

— Mm? — she replied sleepily.

— How are you?

She shifted slightly, getting comfortable.

— I'm tired,— she sighed faintly.

Pause. Silence. It seemed to be starting to rain outside the window, or so it seemed to me.

— Why aren't you sleeping? — she asked into my T—shirt.

— I can't,— I replied calmly.

— Because of me?

I thought about it.:

— Because of us.

She nodded and closed her eyes. Then she rested her head on my shoulder and put her hand on my chest, where my heart is.

— It's beating so fast,— she whispered.

— It's because of you.

— You're lying.

— I'm not.

She sighed, relaxing. I could feel her body getting heavier, her breathing getting deeper, more regular. She was falling asleep. The sound of rain was pounding softly in my ears. Now for sure — he was tapping on the cornice, on the glass, on the roof.

I closed my eyes. Without fear that I won't wake up. Or with fear, but in a different way. I don't know.

***

Jen didn't ask about that night, just made tea. Chamomile. And then she sat down next to him. I went to see a psychologist on Tuesdays and Fridays. Said. He was silent. He was talking again. Sometimes it seemed to me that it was getting easier. The psychologist said that she saw my smile at this session. I didn't notice.

​And then Joseph called. His voice on the phone was flat, without the usual hoarse grin.

—How are you?— she asked simply.

— I'm holding on,— I replied, looking out the window at the courtyard. Plain and grey.

— That's good. — Pause. — Is Jenny with you?

— Yes.

— Thank God. Listen, I've been thinking. If you want to… You can come to the rehearsals. When you're ready. No pressure. Just... to have music.

​The offer is stuck. Music. The FalleN. It all happened. And now?

— I... don't know,— I said honestly. "I'm afraid I can't."

— No one expects anything. You can just sit in the corner. Or beat the drums, if Jenny lets you," there was a faint echo of the old jocularity in his voice. "Think about it. You can do it later.

​We said goodbye. Jennifer watched this conversation with quiet, analytical attention. She didn't ask any questions, but her gaze when I hung up the phone was heavy and understanding.

​That evening, when I was washing the dishes (I made it a rule — a small step towards a normal life), she came up and hugged me from behind, pressing her cheek against my back.

— Thony?

— Mm?

— I talked to Joseph,— she said, her voice calm.

​My body went numb, and the plate almost slipped out of my hands.

—Not like that, — she added quickly, sensing my tension. —I... just asked him what he was going to do.— About the band. About you. He asked you to go to the turnip market again.

— And what did you say to that?— I asked without turning around.

— That it's your decision. What if you want to... I'll just be there," she replied bluntly.

— Thank you,— I whispered.

— You're welcome.

She just snuggled closer. We stood there for a minute or five. I looked at my hands in the soapy water, at her fingers clasped on my stomach. The water in the sink has cooled down. A clock was ticking somewhere in the kitchen—I hadn't noticed it before.

***

​It's been three mornings with chamomile tea and one session with a psychologist. On the fourth, I woke up and realized that I wanted to hear the bass. Real, alive, buzzing from an amplifier. Not on the record, but live. I want to feel the vibration of a guitar combo. Even if I'm scared. Even if I don't sing a single line. I told Jen about it at breakfast.

"Then I'll call Are and Joseph." Let's have a quiet turnip. No pressure," she nodded without surprise.

​The abandoned garage, which we rented for pennies, smelled of dust, engine oil and old wood. I stood at the door for about five minutes. I could hear Jen adjusting the cymbals—sharp, irritated thumps. Ariana was sitting at the keys sideways, with one leg tucked under her, and was drawing something in a sketchbook, while playing the same note with her left hand - checking the sound. She didn't even turn around. Joseph was silent, looking at the phone. Hands pushed the door open. Everyone turned around. Ariana raised her head, glanced at my face, and immediately buried her face back in the paper. She nodded, not to me, but to herself, as if recording an observation. For a second, I thought I was going to turn around and leave. Jen didn't say a word, just nodded at an empty corner by the wall. He sat on the floor, hugging his knees. And I listened to them play without me. For an hour. Two.

​His gaze fell on Jen. The way her hands move on the reels — precisely, rigidly, with concentration. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the cold wall. The concrete hit my back. The sound went into the floor, into the walls, into me. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want him to shut up.

​Then they finished. Jen put down her chopsticks and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She looked up. She met my gaze.

"How are you?" she asked. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

He nodded. She nodded back. And suddenly she smiled, wearily, out of the corner of her lips.

"Then get up." Stop sitting there.

​I got up and picked up my guitar. The strings cut my fingers, the sound was dirty. I caught the rhythm almost immediately — Jen picked it up instantly, as if she was waiting.

— What are we playing? Joseph asked, tuning up the bass.

I looked at Jennifer, and she looked at me.

— "A language I don't know," I said.

​Joseph just raised an eyebrow. Ariana ran through the keys. We've started. The sound hit me like a physical wave. I was standing at the microphone, not touching it, just listening. Listening to Jen's drums set a clear, relentless rhythm. How Joseph's bass forms the basis is heavy and reliable. How Ariana's keys weave a melodious, dreary web over it. His hand slid over the strings, softly, without disturbing the tune of the song.

And then, in anticipation of the chorus, I felt not fear, but emptiness. Not panicked, but quiet, ready to be filled in. I didn't think about what was "before". My thoughts were only about the text. About his own words, spilled out of the thick of the pain.

Step forward. I approached the microphone, inhaling the smell of old foam rubber and metal. He tightened his grip on the pick. Jen's drums were hitting home, leaving no room for doubt, and Ariana's synthesizer hung in the air like a dreary haze.

I opened my mouth. The voice failed on the very first note — it fell into a hoarse whisper, disobedient after a long silence. But he was. I sang above my own fear. He sang for the emptiness inside, to fill it not with despair, but with this raw, garage sound.

Our voices intertwined. Joseph's low baritone served as a support, not allowing my fragile, trembling vocals to crumble completely. But the miracle did not happen. On the way to the chorus, I couldn't breathe, my ligaments cramped, and the sound just disappeared. I lowered the guitar a little lower and silently walked away from the counter, listening to the band continue to play, carefully carrying the song on without me.

Joseph confidently pulled the vocals to the end. The rhythm began to slow down, grow heavier, getting closer to the finale. Jen hit the cymbal one last time, letting the brass tinkle disappear into the dusty air, and Ariana put an end to the long, fading chord.

The vibration from the amplifiers lived in the concrete floor for a couple more seconds before a dense, tangible silence covered the garage. No one was moving.

—Well, finally,— Ariana breathed, taking her hands off the keys. There was no usual sarcasm in her voice, just weariness and a quiet, sincere relief.

​Joseph took off his bass and looked at me. He nodded. Without smiling, he just nodded and looked away first. I nodded back. Jen was sitting at the installation, twirling a wand in her fingers. Our eyes met. She was smiling, and that was enough.

​I put the guitar down on the floor and sat on the old sofa in the corner. No one came up. Ariana was already tapping on her phone, Joseph was winding up the cord, Jen was straightening the plates. The usual rehearsal.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't think about what would happen tomorrow.