I ONLY GOT to find out how far gone I was when De maintained silence for three days. She didn't show up to Sexuality and Gender on Monday, so I took that as an in and sent her lecture slides, tacking on the requirements for the comparative, two thousand-word essay on transsexualism and androgyny our professor asked of us.

I hoped it would be enough to nudge the door open, if only to allow me steal a peek at the other side. But De's curt thanks and nope when I asked if she had any questions regarding the assignment were like reinforcements right up against my face.

I messed up. I could've said anything else. I could've shut the hell up, let her do the talking. It was an option, one I'd taken a few times before. But I'd been a slave to the deep-seated annoyance that spawned from the number of times my mom had asked me if I still wasn't sure I wanted to talk to Dr. Diallo.

I told De I didn't know. I didn't know what this thing was that we were doing. Something we'd both been watering since we met on the deck of that house party in freshman year. Something that thumped between us every time we stood within feet of each other. The reason I sometimes caught her eye in classes. The reason why, that day at the student center, she'd forced her way through the same doorway as me, shoulder brushing my arm, soft scent hanging back. The reason why at the end of most days, in whatever shape or form it took, my mind settled on her, why she was clear through this brain fog that had been a constant for three years.

And all I could say was I don't know.

I was an idiot.

For those three days, I couldn't figure out what to lead with, how to apologize, if to apologize. I was just stuck in that space, indecisive. It felt bigger than me, somehow. Different. The Sydney I'd been for a good part of my life would've let this sit, let it be, found a way to come to peace with it, but I couldn't keep it off my mind. Her face, the dart of confusion and disappointment in her eyes, the resignation.

I took her out on drives only to drop her off halfway to our destination when I wanted to make a detour. She wasn't wrong, even though she may have overemphasized the intentionality of it.

I couldn't make this into something. She'd be the one to go down for it, and I didn't think I could afford that. But that realization still didn't keep it from staying off my mind.

As expected, I planned to stay in all of Thursday. The air was even crisper than it was last week, autumn's tendrils wrapping tighter around Boston, I had that paper to work on, and midterms were around the corner. They were all good reasons to remain holed up, to give in to the photogenic aesthetic.

I was pouring some soda over the ice in my glass in a laughable attempt at relaxing when I heard the jingling of keys outside the front door, and knowing who it was just from the rhythm, I put the soda bottle down and let out a sigh.

Today of all days.

Following the click of the lock opening, Jace walked in like he owned the place, a plastic bag and his phone in one hand, sheer determination in the other.

When he spotted me in the kitchen area, he lifted the plastic bag. "Delivery."

I screwed the cap back onto the soda bottle, then turned to put it back in the fridge. "I didn't plan on having any interactions today," I told him as I pulled the door open.

Without responding, he walked to the coffee table, where he put the plastic bag down, then basically dropped himself into the couch with a groan. Head leaned back, he scrubbed his hands back over his face. "God, I'm tired."

My hand stayed unmoving against the fridge handle for a moment as I took him in, the cold air whooshing out and hitting exposed skin. It'd been a while since he let me see him like this. Jace was always tired, but also never tired. You could hardly tell when he was sick, injured, under the weather. He almost never took a break, never complained. He was always, always at it.

It was a lot for him to admit that to me out loud, especially after I made it clear that I only ever thought about myself.

"What's up?" I asked

He let out an exhale, head still tilted back. "I feel like I pulled a truck. Everywhere aches, man."

"Still taking those meds?"

"Don't think they're doing much at this point, but yeah." He turned his head slowly from side to side, an effort to ease the tense muscles in his neck

"Will you go report it?"

"Tomorrow. It's my off day today."

"You have off days?" My voice held enough playful surprise to make him chuckle, but it was brief, and soon enough, his smile was gone, and the look on his face was replaced by something more disquieting.

Something was on his mind.

I finally made my way out of the kitchen with my glass of soda. "You good, man?"

For a moment, Jason didn't respond. His head remained against the couch, eyes on the ceiling, jaw tense. Then, still somber, he briefly massaged the bridge of his nose and, without looking at me, said, "Solene called last night." There was a pause, highlighted by my freeze response being triggered halfway to him. "Mom's in the hospital. There was another complication, and, uh."

I waited, thinking for some reason that he was going to finish that sentence, but it became clear after a while that it was all he got.

"That sucks." I continued to the couch. "Have you been able to speak to her?"

"Nah. Was told she in a bit of a pain, so don't wanna hear her through that."

"And you don't wanna go home?"

He got off the couch, walking over to the other side of the coffee table with his hands on his hips. I almost forgot he paced when he was stressed. "The jumpscares, Syd," he said. "I don't think I can handle another one. What if Solene didn't live closeby?"

I put the glass in my hand down. "Well, she does, and that's what matters, right?"

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw, eventually turning to face me. "This was a mistake."

"What, coming to college? We're still on that?"

Again, he went quiet, but this time when he met my eyes, the worry was gone, and all I saw was layers peeled off. Standing in front of me wasn't my best friend. It was a dejected young man who had been at the grind long before he was even old enough to know what exactly it meant, who couldn't tell where he stopped and responsibility began. This was a rare sighting. Jace had been the one pacifying me and handling my emotions for as long as I remembered. He seemed almost unbreakable outside the issues of his mom's health.

"Whether we wanna admit it or not . . . she's dying, Syd." His shoulders slumped. "Each one of these crises is just a harsh reminder of that. And I'm out here, three thousand miles away, doing what? Breaking my neck over a six-year major she might not be here to see the end of. This doesn't matter."

This was also scary territory. I wasn't used to this. I didn't know what to do with this. What could I possibly say to take some of that weight off when I'd never been particularly good with words or guaging emotional stakes?

"That's just the weight of responsibility talking," I settled on, pulling a sigh out of him. "You've been responsible for managing the moods and emotions and issues of everyone around you since you were barely ten, Jason. That's a heavy-ass weight for anyone, and the cause of this guilt you always feel when you do something for yourself."

"My sisters are too young to be the ones dealing with this."

"Do you wanna go home then?"

As expected, my question was met with a silence that lasted nothing less than five seconds. In a way, I guess it was a little relieving in moments like these to find out that at his core, despite all the growth and how far he'd come, he was still the same Jason. The essence of him remained. He still got crippled by how intensely he loved, still did nothing because he had so much to do, still paced because he was stressed, still had the same mixed feelings about caring for his mom. I was starting to fear that he'd run so far ahead of me, and that with time I'd be nothing but a mere speck in the distance.

I didn't know what that made me, if I was even a quarter of the friend he was to me when now of all times, I was relieved.

"Your dad's there, Jace. You being there wouldn't prevent your sisters from experiencing it any less."

"Doralis is fu—she's sixteen, Syd. Who's taking care of her during all of this?"

"Who took care of you at that age?"

I realized how wrong that was the moment it came out of my mouth, and Jace didn't hesitate, either. He laughed, hands falling from his hips, genuine enough, but humor still absent. "You did not just say that."

"Jace," I said, trying my hand at damage control, but whatever was supposed to follow didn't finish processing, and I just stood there, half-baked response sitting in my chest. "Will you just . . . sit down?"

He shook his head, observing me at an angle I was scared to interpret. Disappointment wasn't the exact emotion I found in his eyes, but it was the closest.

For another long moment, Jace didn't speak. Then he sniffled and reached up to massage the bridge of his nose again. "There's, uh," he gestured to the plastic bag on the coffee table, "some food in there. It's takeout." He took another pause, like he was thinking about something, then exhaled and walked over to the couch for his phone and keys. "I'll drive around for a bit, clear my head."

"Come on, Jace." I made to move closer, but he was already on his way to the door. "I didn't—I didn't mean it like—"

"Nah, man. You say a lotta inconsiderate shit, and I can't deal with none of that today. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

He suddenly turned to face me. "Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe sometimes I need somewhere to put my shit, too? Or is it only ever about how you're feeling and if you feel up to it?" I opened my mouth to say something. I could swear I had something sensible to say, something to mitigate the situation. But nothing made it out. "I woke up this morning after maybe two hours of restless sleep, and this was the first place I thought to come, Syd."

"And I appreciate that." My voice was barely a whisper, my nervous system finally catching up with the severity of what I said. "I really do." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I just—I just don't know how to—to do this anymore. Emotions. I don't—" I made a gesture towards my chest, desperately looking for the word that perfectly encapsulated what happened first with my mom, then De, and now him. And he stood there the whole time, waiting for me to pull myself together, waiting for me to figure it out, when he could just walk out. "I don't really . . . feel it anymore. I'm—I'm sorry."

He nodded like he understood, remaining in place for a beat longer. "You should eat," he said. Then he turned the doorknob and quietly left my apartment.

Silence descended quickly, until it didn't feel like something I could relax in. I didn't know how long I stood there just staring at the door, thinking about the quiet click, thinking about how utterly broken I had to be to not even be able to show up when it mattered.

I knew his mom's illness, and everything it had meant for him since the diagnosis, was a sour spot for him, but that was how I chose to handle it. He was young the first time. Barely thirteen. For nine years, this had been a weight he had to carry, mostly alone, because through it all, he still had to step up for his siblings.

And for me, too.

"Dammit, Syd," I muttered to myself as I dropped into the couch. Then I watched a bead of condensation trail down the body of the soda glass and dissolve against the dark wood of the table.

"You're kinda stupid, you know?" came Emma's voice from inside my head, so quiet, yet sudden enough for it to startle me a little. It was a memory, one I recognized very well, but it was worrying because I wasn't trying to dig anything back up. If this situation was uncomfortable, going to thoughts of Emma was the least soothing thing I could do. But it seemed she was unearthing herself now, forcing herself into spaces she didn't belong, spaces I'd exorcised her from.

"I know, Em," I responded in a whisper anyway, aware that I may have finally taken a leap over the line.

"did you pull a truck?" — de, ch. 27
"i feel like i pulled a truck." — jace, ch. 32

while we ignore the more pressing issues at hand.