Discomfort (standalone)

"What if we get old?" he asks. I tell him... people like us? We never get old.

He shrugs, loosely, but he shrugs. This sudden fear of being too comfortable washes over me. He blinks up at the sky. I aim my eyes upward as well.

"Do you ever feel like... Like you're supposed to be more than, than this?" I tell him... people like us? Weren't meant to live to begin with.

Starving for something that you're not only makes living that much worse.

He knows. He just won't tell me that he knows. He shifts on the dew - soaked grass, and licks his lips, not releasing his bottom one. He's quiet for a moment, until he realizes I'm still beside him. He blinks slow and tired.

I've etched that grin on his face for more than seven years now. The fact that I've memorized every quirk in his face is unnerving; maybe he doesn't deserve me. Me, treating him like he's something that he really isn't.

"What happens when... if we were to fall? And break, like, every bone in our bodies?" He's excited for my answer, his eyes wild. I tell him... people like us? We're unbreakable.

He's let down by the answer. He wants to break. Or, maybe he wants to witness me breaking. Completely thrown into a pit of glass and still-hot embers. Maybe that's just what he wants. I can never really be too sure. His eyes lie. And I lie. Straight threw my teeth, passed my lips and over his ears.

I'm such a thief that he doesn't even know he's being set up.

He licks his lips again. Another question forming on his tongue; saliva wet and almost ready.

"How... What does it feel like to matter?" I tell him... people like us? We matter.

He's confused.

"But then, why don't we deserve to live?" I tell him... people like us? We just exist.

He thinks about this answer. Maybe contemplating his next question. He scratches his hair, pulling a face. That face that I've practically come to understand shouldn't be a face I'm allowed to see everyday. He still lets me though, and I really don't know why. He's always asking questions, and I'm never one to give him straight answers.

"How long until I die?" he asks.

Maybe he doesn't want straight answers. I tell him... people like us? We don't keep track.

He says, "Not you. Me."

He's always had this fear of living. He's always had this love of dying. He's only half made up of heart, half made up of guts. He tries, and I'm always one to stop him - Intentional sacrificing.

"Why... Why do you think I'm still here, then?"

He blinks hard, and he's blinking back a stinging, salty mess of tears.

I tell him... people like me? We exist because of people like you.

And he gets it.