36. Arlo
I thought nothing could break us.
I thought letting Hota have Nate would help things.
I never imagined watching him fuck Nate, goddamn, practically making him fuck Nate would be the worst torture I’d ever endured.
I could not have guessed that fucking Nate would be its own type of torture for Hota.
What’s done cannot be undone.
He cries himself to sleep that night, shutting me out. I don’t sleep, not for the next three nights. His sobs play on repeat in my head, hurting me in a way my uncle never could.
I deserve this pain. The blades in my razor call to me, but I won’t hurt Hota more to feel some relief.
His door stays locked.
In the days and weeks that follow, we go through the motions. We’re that zombie family I told Dean I’d rather live with. I got my wish. Neither of us are whole anymore.
What little was left of my tattered heart petrifies.
Though I worry more about his heart than mine.
Every night I slip a note under his door.
The words are always the same, though the language is different each time.
I’ve used sixty-seven languages so far.
A lot of my time is spent in the library and on the computer researching languages. There are thousands more to go. When I finish them, I’ll make new ones.
I’ll tell him as many times as it takes for him to understand.
I’m sorry.
We share summer classes, turn seventeen, and wait for other people, whole people, to return to the halls. Maybe they’ll bring some life with them.