Captive - FourTris

Seven

JULY 6
10 MONTHS, 6 DAYS

There was a note on my windshield today. I saw it as I walked up to my car. It made me grin. He used to leave me notes everywhere, in my jacket pockets and on my car and inside my books. But it has been weeks since his last one.

You're so beautiful to me.

I smile and tuck the note into my pocket. I keep them all. They fill a box in the closet, and I often take them out and filter through his words.

When I arrive at his apartment I know he's in a good mood. I used to make him this happy all the time. He could be a ball of stress and nerves when I showed up, and I could soothe him. It's what made me special. And I'm not like his mom—I don't have to be there like she does. I choose to. And that's what makes a difference. I choose him and I love him, and he knows it.

But that rarely works anymore. I don't know why. I don't know when I stopped mattering to him, and I don't know how to undo it. I want it to be like it used to, when all he needed was me.

Today he cooked me dinner and bought me flowers, and we eat in front of the television as a Tom Hanks movie plays out on the screen.

It's cozy. He laughs at the movie, his voice bubbling up, a smile breaking through and lighting up his eyes. He is the Tobias I fell in love with. I want to laugh with him, but I don't have it in me. I think my laughter might be broken, like everything else inside me. If he looks at me, I will fake it, because I want him to stay happy.

He sets his fork down on the edge of his plate and slips his arm around me, and I melt into him. I rest my face against his chest and hear his heart beat steadily.

If I close my eyes, I can lose myself and slip away from everything. These moments are like islands in a stormy sea, and I take them and hide and hope that no one ever finds me. I want to be the castaway, like Tom Hanks, forgotten on my private little island.
He rests his chin on the top of my head. "I love you," he says.

He says it a lot. I think he worries that I will forget.

But I still don't think he loves me as much as I love him. I'm desperate for him to understand. I need him to understand. If he knew, he wouldn't feel like he does. He'd know he can take on the world, he'd know we are unstoppable together. He'd know it's us against them.

Soon, he will understand, because the sculpture is almost done. The glue has to cure for a few more days. And then I will give it to him, and then he'll finally see.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" he asks.

The movie isn't over, but I nod anyway. We've seen this film a half-dozen times because it's one of Tobias's favorites.

He hands me his jacket, the one I always wear. I slip it over my shoulders and push my arms into the sleeves. They're big and warm. I feel good inside it, like it's a coat of armor. He never wears jackets. He never feels cold, I guess.

His apartment complex is small, so we're out of the lot in thirty seconds, walking down the road. The wet pavement sparkles under the streetlamps, a mid-summer rain that can't dampen our mood.

We walk hand-in-hand through the little residential neighborhoods, past all the broken-down cars and ugly chain-link fences. A pit bull growls at us, but Tobias just flips it off. I don't know why he does that. It's not like the dog cares.

Eventually, the houses get bigger. The fences become wood. The cars get shinier. We're back to the land of the privileged, the ones who have no idea the kinds of things that go on behind closed doors. I once belonged to this world, but I don't think it ever belonged to me.