I Fell in Love with Hope(40)

“Hi.”

Neo slams his pen onto his papers.

“I don’t remember you being this stubborn!”

C’s smile doesn’t waver. “I learned it from you,” he says.

Neo scowls. “What do you want?”

“To be friends.”

Neo shakes his head like he’s been smacked. “What?”

“I’ve wanted to be friends ever since you started helping me in Lit,” C says. “But you went back to the hospital before I could ask.”

“My bad–”

“Shut up. Be my friend.”

“We can’t be friends.”

“Do you like music?”

“No.”

“Oh c’mon. Everybody likes music.” C takes out his phone from his back pocket along with a tangled pair of headphones. “Here. I’ll make you a playlist.”

“You’ll make nothing,” Neo scolds, although having to point a finger up at the scoldee doesn’t make for a very intimidating warning.

“How do you feel about Coldplay, Bach, and Taylor Swift for an opening trio?” C’s thumbs tap away at the screen.

“Am I going through a 17th-century break-up with a beach?” Neo asks, monotonous.

“That’d make a cool music video, actually.” C looks up, considering it. “We’ll start with classic rock. You can’t go wrong with classic rock.”

“Coeur!” Neo yells. C jumps, startled, catching the pain in Neo’s voice. “I forgive you, but we are not going to be friends.”

Neo bites down on his lower lip to keep it from shaking, and C hears the idea of threading a connection with a few apples and some music fades like a cut-off melody. Suddenly, the space between them seems a lot larger than it did before.

Neo wipes his eyes. “Just leave, please.”

And C does after he lingers. The sound of Neo’s pen carves at his efforts. It tells him that half of an apology and half of an attempt is not enough to stitch the injury he caused, but I don’t think that’s all there is to it. I do think Neo doesn’t want to be friends with C. I think, from the sheer sadness that swims in his eyes whenever C tries to apologize, that he wants something more.

The following week, C doesn’t go to Neo’s room. Instead, he spends time with Sony. She’s a delightful companion during dreary times. For all her unintentional insensitivity, she’s understanding. C enjoys her energy. He buys her chocolate and races her all she wants.

I join them sometimes. I listen to C and watch him. He’s simple, but even if he is half there, what is there is kind.

He listens. He watches. He tells a nurse how much he likes the new color in her hair, discusses sports with his doctor, laughing over games C’s missed. With Sony, he visits the oncology unit, plays with the kids, and helps however he can, wherever he can, in a way you know he wants to.

He thinks of Neo every day. When we walk past his room, the other half of him is still outside the door, trying to find a way in.

One night, it preys on him more than the rest.

In the cafeteria, he and Sony sit at an empty table. She sleeps soundly, her mouth open. He lazes, eyes half-closed, chin propped on crossed arms. A single earbud plays tunes in his ear, the other in Sony’s.

“You want one?” he asks, fingering the wire connected to his phone as I sit beside him.

“No, thank you. Let her keep it.”

“I was gonna give you mine,” he says, scooting closer, making sure Sony can still hear.

“No luck with Neo?” I ask. C shakes his head. “How’s your heart then?”

His face scrunches up when I use that word.

“Beating.” He presses a single hand to his chest. “I mean, I think it is. It hurts right now.”

“C,” I say. “Can you tell me what really happened between you and Neo?”

He looks at me, considering the past behind the question, because, I think, he’s never been asked.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean–I’m not smart. I’m not good at anything. Except swimming, I guess. That’s all I’ve ever been good at.” The hand on his chest bunches his shirt. “But a few years ago, my chest started to ache.”

“You never told anyone?”

“My parents would’ve made me stop swimming. I wasn’t anything else but a swimmer, and I didn’t want to be nothing,” he says. “After I noticed something was wrong, I started to listen to music all the time, watch movies, stare out windows, just so I could–”

“Exist less?”

C and I exchange a glance.

It’s not easy to acknowledge that something is out of your control. One day, your skin turns to a rash, and your bones start to bend. Your lungs give out, and your mother is no longer there. Your heart hurts and in the depths of a silent, lonely place it stops beating.

It’s sudden. Sometimes too sudden to accept.

“Sorry, I’m not good with words,” C says. He exhales choppily, releasing his shirt.

“Neo was never nice to me like most people are,” he says. “He looked at me longer than everyone else did. He asked questions. He taught me things with every conversation. There’s something rugged but at the same time elegant about him that I’ve always been drawn to, something curious.”