I’ve gotten better at telling what’s him and what’s me—what’s yellow and what’s blue—but a lot of the time, things are green. And when things are green, I feel right in my own body in a way I never have before.

But then: the sky darkens and the waves roll in and where I was standing at the shore before, looking at the storm swirling over the water, now I’m dragged under. His tide is too strong and I’m too close to the undertow to do anything about it. Adam has learned how to weather this. He’s been living with it his whole life. But I don’t know how to swim, not in these waters. I drown instantly and sink to the bottom until we separate and the light starts to stream through, slowly leaching the water from my lungs and bringing color back into my cheeks.

Today is one of those days.

“You should just go home,” he mutters from under his sweatshirt. We’re lying side by side on his bed—his parents aren’t home but, even if they were, they would have no reason to be scandalized. We’re above the covers, I still have my shoes on, and we’re not even touching. Adam is faced toward the wall, swallowed in a hoodie he stole from me (not that I gave much of a fight; he looks pretty cute in it) and even though there are inches between us, it feels like miles of stormy sea.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” I say to his back, desperate to reach out and touch but not knowing if it will make it worse or better.

“Caleb, I’m fine,” he insists, though there’s not much fire behind it.

“You know that doesn’t work on me,” I tell him. “I’m the one person you can’t lie to about being fine.”

He sighs and rolls over to look at me. Shadows from his hoodie play over his brown skin turning him back into the black-and-white-movie version of himself.

“There’s no reason for both of us to feel this way,” he says. “It would make me feel better if you went home and got somebody else’s emotions in you.” He grimaces at his own phrasing. “You know what I mean. Or, even better, go somewhere you can just feel yourself.”

“You need to find a better way to talk about my ability,” I joke weakly, and he gives me a pity smile. I hate those smiles. They’re placating and fake and only make me feel more helpless. I try to make him smile for real when he’s like this—try to make him laugh—but it always feels impossible. Sometimes, it makes it worse.