This State of Mind

He came to visit you. There was a sad smile in his eyes, and a bottle of wine in his hand. Both of those things were for you. He sat down, but didn’t open the wine. He parted his lips to speak, but more than a few moments passed before the words finally came out.

“Hey, Mike. I… I want you to know I’m sorry,” he said. He put the bottle down next to the vase on the table. “This isn’t what I wanted, you know that, don’t you?” He sounded scared, but slowly, hesitantly, he rested his hand on yours.

It's okay. The feeling of his agile fingers on your palm sent an electric sensation down your spine, washed over by peace. Really, I don’t blame you. His green eyes seemed to fog over when you said it, like he knew how much of that was a lie. And then he got up and went home, leaving you there, confused and alone in your hospital bed.

You didn’t see him for another few days.

He greeted you with a smile, a more relaxed one this time, and he placed his palm on your cheek. Comfort. Affection. Friendship. Whatever it was, however many names the English language had for that emotion, you felt all of them at once in that caress. “How’ve you been?” he asked but didn’t wait for an answer. It was rather obvious, anyway. “Adrienne wanted me at home for a while. She and the boys got worried. Something about me not sleeping and eating.” There was a dry humorless chuckle that left an awkward silence between you. He knew it wasn’t funny. He knew you worried.

Why do you do that to yourself? You didn’t want to pick a fight, but it wasn’t fair. He would do this for weeks on end. Every time something bothered him, he just up and refused to take care of himself, like apathy would make everything better. He didn’t respond though. He just looked away, green eyes directed at his knees as he chewed at his bottom lip. It was raw from anxiety; it was a bad habit that you never really bothered to point it because it was so damn cute. Except for now. Now, it made you want to hold him and tell him it would be alright. If you could.

He stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stroked your face again and left you laying there, stricken and on the verge of heartbreak again.

It was hard to say how much time had passed until you saw him again. It may have been the next day, like he promised. It may have been a week. It didn’t matter; it just felt like forever. The tears streaking down his face didn’t help any. The only small mercy was that he decided to forego the eyeliner that morning. Ordinarily, you would have joked that he didn’t dress up for you, but now… there was something about it that paralyzed you, leaving your arms limp and heavy at your sides.

You tried to put your arm around his shoulders, but he stayed hunched over, like he didn’t even feel you. He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t sit. Green eyes cast down again, not meeting your blue ones, not even daring. “I’m so sorry.” His voice was a choked whisper, barely audible through the lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean to Mike, you know I didn’t mean to.”

I know you didn’t. Trust me, I know. And again, your words went unheeded. He fell to the ground and brushed his dark hair from his face. It wasn’t until you saw the grass stains seeping into his suit that you realized you weren’t alone. There was Adrienne. There were his sons. And your daughter. And your mother. And your sister and her family.

It wasn’t until then that you remembered the last time he heard your voice. “I love you,” you told him. It must have been months ago. And big surprise, he couldn’t meet your eyes. He said sorry and pulled you close. You pulled away. And you didn’t think after that; you didn’t want to. Your daughter and your mother and your sister and her family – none of it mattered. Seventeen years of pining, of wishing, hoping that he would find his way into your arms, all trashed and scattered in a span of five minutes.

“This is hard for me, too.” He told you when you wrenched your arm from his grip.

“I fucking hope so!” you’d whispered vehemently, backing away and willing him to leave your sight. “I hope it fucking hurts.”

Cue the pills. Cue the hospital curtains and the nurses and your best friend sitting ever day by your comatose form.

And here was Billie now, pulling himself off the ground and clutching your casket so hard his knuckles were white. And here was Billie, leaning down to kiss your cold lips. You shivered and it was washed over by peace, like only he could ever make you feel. And there was stone-silent grief etched over all of his features like only you could ever make him feel. “I’m so sorry, Mikey,” he whispered again and this time when you tried to touch his shoulder, he didn’t move away. He didn’t feel you at all.

Me too.

You stood next to him through the eulogies and you watched them lower your body into the ground. His wife took his hand – envy, at least, never dies – and kissed his cheek.