I JUST WANT YOU TO LIKE ME | ✓

▬ 23: basement

            My arrival into consciousness is sticky. Sunlight presses against my eyelids but my lashes are glued together and it takes more energy than I have to pry them apart. So I keep my eyes shut as I slowly settle into the present, into Ziri's bed. I sense him moving around me — it must be him because my body stays relaxed.

I always thought I had some sleep disorder until me and Ziri moved in together and suddenly I sunk so deep into it that it scared me at first. I'd wake with a jolt, terrified in the first seconds of wakefulness that someone had broken in, the house were on fire, the world had ended. It never had. The world were just starting.

Ziri must sense I'm awake; the mattress dips with added weight. 'I made you some eggs. If you want, like, actual dinner, we'll have iftar when my dad comes home.' The shame in his voice is so thick that it finally wakes me up.

Ziri holds a tray with a glass of water, another of orange juice, and a plate of summat like shakshuka but without any vegetables. I catch his eye though he, still ashamed for not being able to cook summat more extravagant, flees quickly.

'Thank you, love.'

Picking out the sleep crusted in the corners of my eyes, I sit up and take the tray from him. Ziri is quick to disclaimer, 'You don't have to eat it if it's disgustin.'

I ignore him. I didn't know sleeping could make me so hungry but it's like I've not eaten in days; I've eaten a whole egg before I pause. 'It's proper salty.' He crumbles and I know he's about to apologise. 'It's okay. I'll just drink plenty water after.'

Ziri pulls his mouth into a smile but it's gone before it appears.

Fishing his cross necklace from under his oversized t-shirt, he pulls it back and forth on its chain. His teeth find the chapped skin of his lip but I nudge him with my foot and he releases it.

'I'm sorry I made such a mess. I'll come back home on Monday to clean.'

I chew slowly before I lower my fork onto the plate. 'It well stressed me out, to be honest,' I admit. 'I know you can't help it and I'm not angry with you, but... I dunno. It's such a small thing to make a big deal out of, but when you're manic or hypomanic, you always buy useless shit cause "it were on sale" or "we'll need it one day", and, like, my mum's a hoarder so it just well stresses me out.

'Like last time when you bought ten pairs of reading glasses cause "you'll probably need them when you're older" — in hindsight, it's actually dead funny, but at the time, like, that's exactly summat my mum would do and it activated my fucking fight or flight response.' Ziri frowns and my heart clenches. 'I'm sorry, I weren't tryna make you feel bad–'

'Shut up.' The remark is intended to brim with exasperation, so exaggerated that it becomes affectionate, but it comes out flat. He drops to lie on the bed, his feet still on the ground and the top of his head pressed to the wall, my toes under his back. 'You're allowed to talk about your feelings. Stop worryin bout mine for once.'

But guilt has a death grip. I shift around on the bed, my body filling with the familiar desire to run. Run until the feelings go away, until the only thing left is fatigue. Dr Qureshi would tell me I have to get used to discomfort, that communicating openly can feel difficult but the depth it cultivates in a relationship is worth it. I focus on breathing, the way Bà Ngoại taught me to when meditation.

'The chicken flowerpot were cute though,' I add when the jitters have faded. 'I ain't angry about that.'

The mist behind Ziri's eyes vanishes. Even his body comes back to life. 'It was cute! How many people d'you know with plant pots like that? None! So one day when we have friends and they come over they'll be like "wow, I wish I was as cool of a gay couple that I had a plant pot with chicken legs".'