I hate myself for thinking that. But right now I kind of also hate him. Why do people always say dumb stuff when they’re trying to make you feel better? I want him to be more angry than me. I want him to be angry for me.

But he’s trying to be calm because he thinks that’s what I need.

His hair is disgusting.

“When is it going to happen?” he asks, not looking at me.

It feels uncomfortable to be with him like this after everything that’s happened. We’re sitting on the grass in the backyard. Rainbow grazes nearby. Every so often he swishes his tail to make the flies go away, but they always come back.

“Soon, I think.”

“How soon?”

“I don’t know!” I snap.

Micah closes his mouth, but his jaw moves like he’s biting his teeth together so he won’t yell. His eyes get glassy, as if he’s about to cry. I would tell him to let it all out, but honestly it is the last thing I want.

I start to care less about his hair, though.

“Where will you go?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know.”

He turns away so I can’t see his face. There’s an extra-big hair dent on the back of his head. His shoulders tremble. Now that I see how much he’s hurting, I want to reach out and pat the dent away, even if his hair is gross. I want to hug him. I want to press my face into his shirt and cry into him.

A big ball of despair rises up my throat, like a giant sob just waiting to explode out of me.

Micah turns back to me and hugs me, and then I do sob, all over his chest. I soak his T-shirt with my tears, claiming it. He squeezes harder and cries into the top of my head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry this is really happening. I’m sorry I was such a jerk. And for not returning your texts.” He is letting it all out.

This feels like a bad dream that you can’t wake up from. The kind of dream that’s turning into not quite a nightmare, but something worse. The kind where things start happening that are totally out of your control and suddenly you realize it’s just a dream but you can’t wake up. You tell yourself to open your eyes and you’ll be safe in your bed and all the sadness won’t be real, but when you open them, you’re still in this other, horrible place and things keep getting worse, and sadder, and more desperate.