The Man Who Lived Again

38

I blink, and my thoughts stop. They vanish. My head literally empties itself.

'You are,' I whisper, and he laughs.

He's laughing.

'I'd like to think I'd have a degree of say in the matter, in which case I can assure you I'm not.'

My expression remains blank, which is why I imagine he elaborates without any prompting.

'We'd not really spoken since... everything, and it was–Frankly, it was a little patronising because she said she was sorry about my past, but also clearly didn't want to specify any details in case of instigating a breakdown or something, or at least that's the impression I got based on her deeply sympathetic, verging on fearful stare throughout the whole conversation.'

He takes a breath, then shrugs.

'But yes, my point is that she ended the conversation with a hug, and I was hardly going to tell her to fuck off.' He pauses. 'I hated it, to clarify. The hug. The conversation, too.'

God, yeah, it sounds like his worst nightmare.

'She didn't ask to get back together?' I ask, lifting my eyes to peer into his as if to check he's not lying–as if he ever would. 'You don't want want to get back together?'

'No, I'm not interested in her.'

'You should be,' I respond because apparently, I'm the sadist.

'Noted,' he replies with an eye roll, then pauses as he scans me. 'You've not answered my question about...'

He gestures vaguely towards me, which in hindsight, is kind of him. I'd rather he didn't reference my crying and sprinting-related breakdown with words.

As the realisation of what's happening–of the reason I'm here in the first place dawns on me–I feel sick again. This was supposed to be a sensible chat, for Christ's sake. A calm, totally normal, mature chat about our situation. How can this possibly be anything like that after my performance?

I should tell him it's nothing. I should say I'm just in a weird mood, or that I'm stressed over some uni work, or maybe even fabricate some lie about Dad doing something to upset me. I should back down while I can. I should do that–I know I should just bow out, but if my reaction to seeing him and Dana has proved anything, it's that I can't kid myself any longer. I can't lie to him any longer.

'I like you,' I declare.

Great start, Mia.

'You're so important to me,' I continue, which isn't much better. 'You know that, obviously, but it's more than that. When I saw you just now–When I thought you and Dana were getting back together, I honestly thought I was about to die, and that sounds fucking insane–I know how melodramatic that sounds, but it literally felt like someone had clawed through my chest, grabbed my heart, and squeezed it.' I take a breath because I'll suffocate if I don't. 'And that's not normal. Obviously, that's really not a normal reaction to seeing your friend possibly rekindle a relationship with someone you think would be good for them, so I think that's–The issue is that, is what I'm saying. Us being friends. Just friends, I mean.'

I'm not sure why I deem that the most appropriate place to stop speaking because God, do I leave so many lines to read between and hurdles to jump through, but I leave it there anyway. I guess I'm just lucky Preston never fails to make complete sense of the shit I spout.

'You don't... I thought you didn't want our friendship to get fucked up over something insignificant, that anything between us would be awkward,' he says out of nowhere.