Madrugada

ADHD

I know you're looking at me right now.

           It was quiet in his grandmother's room, the light coming through the almost transparent curtains as an orange-pink glow. It was hot; the fan was off, and I could feel the stifling heat as I scratched his cat behind the ears. She was purring at me in her strange machine tones, ramming into my stomach repeatedly for more attention. I obliged without question.

           Sitting on the bed, we watched the cat in companionable silence. I could feel the hint of a smile on my face. For once, he wasn't whipping out his DS to force me to play Pokémon, or getting up and walking away without explanation. He was still the giving, supportive boy I knew and loved, but that part seemed to fade more and more, being replaced by half-hearted compliments and the need to talk about every problem he faced day-to-day. Every time we were together, it was as if he wanted to distract himself from me.

           More than anything, I wanted the side of him back that I had come to love. Not this distanced friend.

           But now, finally, it was just us, enjoying each other's quiet. I did not have to turn to feel his brown eyes watching me behind his glasses, with a contented little grin I rarely saw anymore.

            I knew this was calming him. Being with a friend and his cat, the "one creature I actually love," was something he claimed he did not need to be happy. Yet I knew better. He had been so riled up, so violent and tense before now—not enough to be threatening or frightening, just a brief moment of out of control behavior.

"I just don't want to be different," he had confided earlier, when we had walked from the park to his home. "I don't want the medications to change me. I'm...sorry if I act out."

           "I can understand that," I had replied. During that walk I knew he had wanted to 'act out,' like run down the road without ever looking back. He had run his hand through his hair and went into abrupt silence (his most notable sign of frustration), his pace quickening ridiculously, and I fought to keep up. He became reckless, and I became apprehensive. When we reached the house, instead of leaving him by the front porch with an overenthusiastic "see you later", I insisted to briefly come over and visit his cat. I could tell by his tight face that he wanted to refuse.

           But now, sitting in the smoke-scented room, it seemed as if the tranquil stillness was finally settling in on his normally anxious self. I glanced up from the cat, who had curled her neck into my fingers as they brushed her fur. I gave him a small smile that I didn't have to force, and then glanced away uncertainly. In my mind I saw him smile back, at ease, his shoulders slumping forward lazily.

          He looked at me, seeming as if he was about to say something important. "Do you ever get that feeling—" he started, searching for words. "Where you just want to hug somebody so hard, but you just can't—"

           Because you'd probably kill them. Yet I was nodding as soon as he said the first couple of words, as if I had predicted this in my head and saw the whole discussion planned out. His words were about me. My persistence of staying nearby and placing him in a comfortable setting had paid off, at least for me. There was the boy I knew, the sweet one, the spontaneously affectionate one. The impulsiveness had died away for a bit, the ADHD at bay, at least for now. He was finally at peace.

           Yet I waited for his arms to wrap around me, and when they did, I held him tightly with my eyes closed. "Don't crush me, you idiot," I laughed after he released me. The cat hopped away at the sound of my voice, making him giggle.

           "Sorry," he snickered. Then his tone changed. "But Zoe. Thank you...for everything."

           "You're welcome," I said, almost hesitantly. I tried to speak, to elaborate how much I wanted him to stay this way, forever...but I knew I could not. He could not. It was a fool's hope.

           Even I can't fix this problem.

           "Well, I'm still trying," I said out loud, and he laughed, oblivious as always.