“Are you angry with me?” I ask him because tonight I am telling him the truth. I am telling him the truth about myself, the truth I don't tell anyone, the secret that makes me different from everyone he knows. I throw it like a lasso around his neck, a life jacket, something to hold him back from taking the final step into darkness.
He shakes his head negatively, tightening the bars. “I'm curious.” His eyes with yellowish streaks, in which I always get lost, find mine. “How do you feel? About who you are?”
“I feel like I’ve stolen,” I say. “Like this body isn't really mine.” Confessions can be harsh and shocking, but mine is tender. The truth about what I am doesn't make sense, but it doesn't need to make sense. He knows this. He has been sick since he was born. Being sick teaches you that the causes are just failed attempts to justify bad luck. They give you an illusion of why, but the why is a noisy question, while death is quiet.
“Do you believe me?” I ask. He nods. “Do you still love me?” “Of course I still love you.” He sighs, takes my face in his hands, and with his thumb strokes my cheek. I smile. Love unites us. Love made us pretend.