I Fell in Love with Hope(12)

His body turns to stone.

I blink at the silence and the shred of space between us. I’ve never noticed how protruded his cheekbones are till now, nor how intense his eyes become when a sliver of emotion passes through.

“Whenever I bring your tray and come back to get it, only half the food is gone, and the plastic wrap is missing,” I explain, putting the empty cup on the left and the jello cup on the right. “I assume you wrap the food in it and then flush it down the toilet. If you were purging, your doctors would’ve noticed by now.”

Once the plate is at the center, napkins seeping the liquid, I finally meet Neo’s gaze. He still stares. Only it just now occurs to me that it isn’t confusion looking back at me.

It’s panic.

I pick up the tray, awkwardly handing it to him, trying to return some familiarity to our relationship, before asking, “Are you okay?”

Neo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t take my offering either. His face contorts, teeth tight against each other like grinding stones.

He grabs the corner of the tray and flips it over, its contents clattering against the tiles. Then, he marches off, leaving me to clean a second time, now, on my own.

—

That night, despite our encounter, I bring Neo his dinner.

He’s not writing. His anger has subsided. Instead, he bites his nails, twirls his pen, and taps his fingers like his mother does.

“Did you tell anyone?” he asks.

I put his tray down on the bedside table and shake my head.

He thins his eyes. “Why not? What do you want?”

“I’m not sure what it is I want,” I say. “But I’m not good at talking, so no, I haven’t told anyone.”

“Are you autistic or something?”

“No.”

“So you’re just weird?”

“Yes, I’ve been called weird before. But you’re not good at talking either.” Neo scowls, waiting. Insults come in two parts. “You’re mean,” I explain. “I don’t like what you say.”

“Get out, weirdo,” he mutters. He uncaps the pen with his teeth and lays it to his ocean. He doesn’t pay any mind to the plate of food.

I pay mind to his body. His clothes are loose, but they don’t conceal as much as he thinks they do. His skin is grayer, his neck and ankles considerably thinner than they used to be. He hasn’t left because he isn’t getting better. He’s getting worse.

It occurs to me that no one but Neo and I know about this part of him.

It’s a secret.

Secrets make people vulnerable. Vulnerability is an isolating force. It pushes people away.

“I like what you write,” I say, hand on the doorknob. Neo glances at me, and for a moment, I think, finally letting his guard down. “Your writing sounds like music.”

—

The next day, when I put Neo’s tray down, he doesn’t look up. Instead, he holds out something for me.

“A book?” I ask, looking at the cover. It’s rich with blues and gold, a pair of eyes looking back at me, and The Great Gatsby written in thin, elegant letters.

“Yes,” Neo says. “Read it.”

“Okay.”

I walk to the corner of the room and sit in the chair, opening the book to page one.

“Wha-not here!”

Neo doesn’t like company, I forget. His vulnerability doesn’t like it. So, I read on my own. In the hall. In waiting areas. In doctor’s lounges. In the gardens. I read anywhere I can till the pages I have left become fewer than the pages I’ve consumed.

“You almost done?” Neo asks, passing the nurse’s station.

“Mhm,” I nod, from behind the desk, enthralled in Gatsby’s torrid affairs.

Neo doesn’t say anything else. He places another book in front of me. This one is Lord of the Flies. It’s a bit smaller, a pig bleeding from the eyes on the cover. It takes me a day to read. I bring both books back to him that night.

“I didn’t like this one,” I tell him.

Neo quirks a brow, an apple in his hand. “Why not?”

“I don’t like violence.”

“It’s not real violence,” he says, tucking the books back in that box.

“It feels real.”

“Weirdo,” Neo grumbles. He grabs another book and hands it to me. This one is called Wuthering Heights. The cover has an old house on it, a woman and a man in the foreground beneath dreary skies.

There are so many books Neo teaches me. My curiosity turns absolutely fatal. It wonders about all those beautiful things Neo writes and what stories his mind could possibly conjure.

“Could I read something of yours?” I ask.

“No. Go away.”

And so, I’m off to read Wuthering Heights.

The next morning, I run, beyond eager to tell Neo how wonderful this story is. That it’s my favorite yet. That there isn’t a single word I could stop at. That despite the violence, this must be a masterpiece if it isn’t considered one already. I sprint to his room, no tray in hand.

“I thought we were past this!”

I skid to a halt before I even reach the door. It’s shut, but through the wall, voices bleed.

“Honey.” Neo’s mother. Through the blinds, I see her tight hands soften on her husband’s elbow. “Calm down.”