I brush my fingers against the page, pressing my face into the pillow.
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, By any other name, would smell as sweet."
My tongue mimics the sound of the words in silence, and I let my hand flatten, the feeling of Braille a cacophony against my hand. A stray word here and everywhere, context lost.
I don't want to read anymore.
Not when I'm thinking about him. It makes me feel guilty, to read a book and try to drown it out, while I'm thinking about him.
They're getting jumbled in my brain. The him in the house below, in the living room, of the world and the him that remains, forever, in a hospital bed, in a casket, in the ground. They're getting mixed up and it's so hard to keep everything straight.
Romeo and Juliet isn't a love story.
I shut the book, and push it off the bed, disgusted. I turn and curl up into a ball, dragging a pillow against my chest.
What is a love story?
What is love?
I squeeze the pillow and feel my skin tighten, my muscles shaking off the book on the floor. I want to rid myself of it so I can think.
I shove the pillow away. I was so young. What we felt, what I felt, was it love?
Am I even capable of love? Would I know it, if I felt it? If I'll ever feel it?
Is love even real? Is it longing, instead? Is it a need, obligation? Passion? Simple affection? Did I feel lust, did I feel anything at all?
I can't feel anything at all.
I draw the pillow back in and hold it tight, pushing my face into it.
I want to go home. I felt at home, for once, with him. I only ever felt at home when I was in his arms. Is that love?
Will I ever feel that again?
I've wasted so much time. How old was I, 18, 19? It's been a decade since he was gone. I wonder if ghosts are real. I wonder if they are if my thoughts of him have kept him here.
Ghosts aren't real.
There's a knock on the door. I roll over and pick up the book, setting it on the nightstand. My fingers touch the first letter of the title, and the sound rings out in my head.
R, Ar.
"Come in!" I call. Ar -- my mouth makes the motion and my mind fills in the end -- thur. "Arthur."
The door creaks open and I'm sure it's him because no one else smells like Axe and old people.
"Aedin."
"Arthur," I say, in reverence. I sigh. I didn't mean to let my internal monologue bleed through. His name is more beautiful than I'd noticed before.
He falls quiet. "What?"
"Nothing. You came in here for a reason?" I ask, sitting up and letting my legs hang off the bed. I still haven't shaved, I need to take a shower, like, last week. I feel awful, physically, and mentally exhausted and guilty.
"Uh, yeah. Where do you keep your first aid kit?"
I tilt my head. "Are you okay?"
He pauses. "Y-Yeah."
"Can I see?"
"You can't-"
"You know what I meant."
"I-I guess."
He walks closer, standing in front of me. I lift my hands and let them drift forward until I find his chest. His heart is beating fast.
"Where?" I ask, and after a second of pause, his fingers close around my hand, and he guides me to the spot.
His arm. I trail my fingers down until he takes a hissing breath through his teeth and I feel him start to pull away. It's on his wrist.
"What happened?"
He's quiet.
I hear the rusty cogs screeching for oil in my head.
"What happened, Arthur?" Ar-thur.
Again, not a word. I wait longer, this time.
"I just... I need to find the first aid kit," he breathes.
"You can say it."
"I don't-..." He takes a deep breath. "Is it in the kitchen?"
"I won't be angry," I whisper.
My hand, still hovering in the air, twists along and slides underneath his hand, holding it by the underside, midway up his forearm.
"I-... I... don't..." His muscles flex, and I know his hand has clenched into a fist. "Aedin-..."
I sigh, standing up.
"If you're gonna live with me," I mutter, "You have to understand that it's safe here. You can say anything you need to say."
A pause. He steps back, moving away slightly. "I did... I cu-... I cut myself."
I caress the back of his forearm. "Then let's go get you something for it."
"Mhm." He says, nodding.
I lead the way, letting him hold my fingers, to the downstairs bathroom. In the cabinet under the sink, the first aid kit sits. I take it out and sit on the edge of the bathtub, leading him to sit on the toilet across from me.
I take out a few of the extra large bandaids and a tube of Neosporin. I open the bandaids, twist off the cap of the ointment, and squeeze a bit onto them, then hand them over.
"Will that be enough?" I ask.
"Mhm," he hums, faintly.
There's a long moment filled only by the sound of rain outside. Afterwards, he stands up, and turns to go.
I follow him.
"Arthur."
He goes into the kitchen, going back to making dinner. "What?"
"I think we should... arrange... for you," I start, setting my hands on the ice cold marble countertop. "To have visits with Paul, sometimes."
He doesn't say anything.
"You don't have to," I tell him, moving around the counter slowly, then breaking off and going to lean against the table. "I just think it'd be a good idea. Would you try it?"
"On one condition," he replies sternly. "You have to start taking care of yourself more. I'll see Paul for a couple hours on the weekend, if you start eating, sleeping, showering, and grooming yourself regularly. And we both go for a walk every weekday."
I smile. "Sure. It's a deal."