Breathe

Black coffee makes everything better in the morning. My eyes are still sore but it doesn’t matter because the bitterness of the coffee distracts me. I only drink black coffee on days when I am stressed, upset or nervous – and I guess I’m all three today.

My hands shake as I lean against the counter and rub my eyes with one hand, the other still wrapped around the mug. I always regret crying. It makes my eyes glare with red rims and itch with a sadness I detest. Closing them, I wonder how long she’ll be in the shower – I can hear the water running from the kitchen.

I slowly wind my way around the table, my stripy pyjama bottoms hanging low on my hips. The fridge hummed a song to my ears, a very bland song, a song that speaks of loneliness and what might happen today. What might have already happened in her head.

Sunlight whispers into the room and right now, I feel alone and completely revealed. She knows me now, she knows what I think and now I’m going to have to face her after the embarrassing night I had yesterday. It was an awkward night for both of us, I guess.


“What is wrong with you?” Her face shines in the darkness like a ghost. It shines with anger and frustration and utter confusion. “Why are you always like this, always so...cut off from me? You never used to be like that.”

I sit down on my bed with a thump and bite my lip, tears brimming at the corners of my eyes in a way I know she won’t notice. “I can’t tell you,” I say softly. “You wouldn’t understand. It would only upset you.” My secret cannot be revealed, it cannot be said, I just can’t tell her. Sometimes I wish I could but I know all it would result in would be broken hearts and tears and newly shattered friendships.

“But I want to know! I need to know!” she nearly shouts and I lift my gaze to her eyes.


It takes her until midday to emerge from her room and silence cascades over us like an unwelcome smile. I don’t know whether I’d prefer to talk or not. My eyes have been watering all morning – a bad nervous habit, I know.

She enters into the living room, where I sit, submerged in blankets and chocolate and the loud voices on the movie with as much horror and action as I need. A small “Morning,” escapes her lips in a mumble and I nearly want to remark about how it’s not technically morning, but it’s not the time. I mumble back an inaudible reply and she grunts. Awkwardness settles over us like it never has before.

I wring my hands underneath my blankets where she can’t see and sweat breaks over my forehead. My heart’s beating worse than it ever has in her presence and not in a good way. My breath is shortening in a way that makes me think love takes you underwater and leaves rocks in your pockets to keep you there.

“What are you watching?” she asks after a moment of stretched out silence.

I shrug, honestly not even sure what’s on the television – I was only half tuned in. I saw the start and decided that if I’m terrified and disgusted by gore, I might be a bit distracted. Yeah, I was wrong.

She glances at me before sitting down beside me – or beside my blankets, rather – and murmurs shyly, “Your eyes are red.” I already know that and I think she already knows that I know but she always broaches a subject with the least important part. It might be a tad cowardly but that just makes me love her more.

“I know,” I reply softly, my own gaze fixed on a worn spot on the carpet. We need new carpet but hey, it’s not like we have that much money in the first place. I found this apartment by accident and the rent seemed okay – until I decided to go to university. That’s when I asked around for a roommate and Lily turned up, bright as a butterfly and love was on its way.

“Did last night really happen?” Dazed and confused, she rubs the back of her neck and runs a finger through her hair. Her own bad nervous habits. I guess we all have them.

“Yeah, it did,” I whisper to both of us, admitting finally that the truth is out and it’s all down to her to wrap it around herself and send it on the path it’s meant to take.


I look to her with pleading eyes, wishing her to just let it go, walk away and let us smooth over the rough edges in the morning. I want her to forget it. “Just please, just understand,” I beg. “Understand I can’t tell you. It’ll only end up in hurt.” I wrap my arms around myself, realising she can see the worn red grazes all over the pale skin of my arms, if she cares to look. I hate myself for scratching, for thinking that maybe I can free the unnatural part of me through scratching it out.

She grabs my arms and I know she saw, but her nails dig in and make it more painful. To my embarrassment, I let out a whimper. She loosens her hold with a shocked expression and glances down and then I figure out I’d read too much into her actions. Horror and anguish warps into her eyes, joining the anger and confusion.

“Please,” she whispers brokenly. “Please tell me what’s going on. Please tell me why you won’t talk to me about important things anymore.”

“If I don’t talk to you about anything important,” I say slowly, “then I can distance myself from you. Then you won’t find out and you’ll stay okay and we’ll still at least be friends.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, frustration cutting into her tone.


“So you actually...you know,” she finishes lamely, unable to bring herself to say the words. I glance to her properly for the first time that day and see that she’s in her worst clothes, her hair is stringy and her face is greasy, despite having a shower this morning. She’s beautiful.

“Yep,” I sigh. I know I could probably lie and say, no, you must’ve had a bad dream, what are you talking about? But I don’t want to. Maybe I wish last night didn’t happen but it did and I’m not going to trick Lily into thinking it didn’t.

She scoots over a tiny bit and another tiny bit and another tiny bit until she’s right next to my blankets, close enough to touch. She grabs the end and pulls it over her and I grin, just slightly, tugging the blanket back. “These are my blankets, you know,” I say, sounding healthier than I have all morning.

She smiles back, just a little one like mine and pulls it back, climbing underneath my mountain of warmth.


“I can’t tell you!” I cry. Why won’t she understand? Why won’t she leave me alone? Her tears are hurting me so much; I want to tell her but I know it’ll just make it worse. Her tears will fall even more once she knows. Her tears hurt me more than they should.

“Yes, you can!” she yells, rubbing away the droplets of water sliding down her cheeks. “Please,” she asks softly, for one last time.

A moment passes of me biting my lip and my heart fluttering so hard, I think I’m going to faint. “I’m gay,” I say finally, “and I’m in love with you. Happy now?”

“Y-You...” she stutters, shock so clear on her face.


She shivers beside me, slightly, so slightly I nearly don’t notice – but I’m one to notice the small details. My own hands shake but I press them into my blanket-covered legs. “This movie is freaky,” she remarks after a while and I turn my eyes to the television – I was actually watching the floor before. We really need new carpet.

I see blood and hear screaming and decide, yeah, she’s right, this movie is freaky. Why was I supposed to be watching this again?

My mind is a white piece of paper, ready to be scrawled upon with her slender fingers. I’m waiting for her to fill me in, change my memories, change my future. Waiting for something that will never come.

“Yeah,” I reply, realising I might sound like I’m ignoring her if I don’t say anything. “It is.”

“Let’s do something else then.” She leans out of the blankets for a moment to grab the remote and switch the television off. I inhale sharply as she turns to me and nervously, I press my hands against my thighs again. I’m so glad I’m mostly covered, mostly hidden. She says flatly, “So you’re really in love with me then?”

“Yes,” I say, impatience ringing slightly in my tone. There’s only so many times I can confirm this until I have to wonder if she has memory loss or something. “I’ve only told you, like, a million times.”


She backs away, like I knew she would, and says stiffly, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.” So many emotions cloud her eyes but she keeps her face indifferent – a mask I thought I’d never have to see.

“’Night,” I say softly and she leaves the room. I bury my face in my pillow and sob until the sky turns pale pink with unspoken tales of love that’s supposed to be right. That’s what my parents told me – that I’m wrong, that I’m unnatural, that God won’t accept me as gay. I don’t even believe in a god anymore.


She scratches her chin and closes her eyes and then says, “I thought being gay was supposed to be wrong.” She opens her eyes again and looks straight at me. “But you don’t seem wrong. No, you’re not wrong. Does that mean I’m not wrong either?” For a second, she sounds like a child holding a teddy bear and asking her mummy not to punish her for being naughty, with a wobbly lip and shiny eyes.

“What-” I was about to ask when her childish resemblance fades away and she kisses me with a passion children are too young to understand.

And that’s when we both realise we’re not wrong – we are just as we’re meant to be. That’s when I realise broken hearts are what leaves rocks in your pockets but love lets you breathe underwater.