Sometimes, you say and then you stop. Sometimes what, I say. You turn your head lift it up and look at me, eyes miserable. Nothing, you say. It has to be something, I sigh and I don’t want to play this game any more, I don’t want to care.

Don’t worry about it, you say. I look down at you, crammed into the narrow space between the bottom of the bed and the wall, knees tucked up tight to your chest like the world might end and you are trying to make yourself as small as possible. I stretch out wide across the bed and take up as much space as I can because suddenly small is not okay because suddenly I need room because suddenly this layer of skin pulled tight across my bones is not large enough.

Fine, I say and watch your head instantly crumple at the sound of the curt dispassionate response, graceful pale swan neck folding down dark hair curtaining your face from me from the world. When something hurts you go far inside, you said to me once back when I actually cared what you felt. You back away from everything else and curl up tight with your pain knotting your chest. Talk to me, I said to you then. Don’t shut me out, let me in let me help if you go inside I want to go with you.

I almost ask how you are, for old time’s sake. I almost lean over the edge of the bed and grab your delicate hand in mine and kiss the myriad of scars you’ve spangled across your wrist. I almost but then I don’t. I don’t care about you not really, but I do care a little that I don’t care anymore. I don’t care, but I remember caring remember endless nights holding you as closely as tightly as possible remember wanting more than anything to make it all okay.

Sometimes, you say again, voice muffled and quiet against the tights covering your knees, sometimes I wish things were different. I look at you and you lift your head again tilt back your face and look at me too and we just look at each other for awhile both silent and not quite content. I don’t say anything about the pill container I found in your drawer last week even though I think that maybe I should. I don’t say anything at all.

Silence eats you from the inside out, you say pulling a string on your tights and unraveling a section of the neverending pattern. So does cancer, I say. You look at me through half-closed eyes. that isn’t what I was talking about, you say and I shrug and pretend I don’t know exactly what you mean.