Milo
THE DRIVE BACK to my apartment was anything but quiet. I staked my claim on the car’s Bluetooth connection and blared the most depressing music I had on rotation, loud enough for my insides to vibrate with the bass and to cancel out any intrusive thoughts that might otherwise have taken hold.
Jasper gave me some side-eye from the driver’s seat.
Usually, he would complain about the volume and my so-called shit taste, but this time, I had a free pass.
I was in a delicate place, and I’d be damned if I didn’t use it to my advantage.
Dissociating alongside the music came easily, and for the last half of the drive, I even fell asleep.
I startled awake to the sound of the driver’s door closing, my heart beating erratically.
Whatever nightmare had snuck up on me was already slipping away, details fuzzy.
Only the fear lingered, and even that faded when my door was pulled open, forcing me to meet the lines of quiet concern etched into my brother’s tired face.
“Let’s go.” He motioned with his head.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mocked, unclipping my seatbelt and swinging my legs to the ground.
Once we were inside the apartment building and climbing the stairs, every step felt heavier than the last, like my shoes were filling with sand.
I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted to go back to my real home, the one where I’d shared birthdays and holidays with my two adoptive siblings.
The one I’d built for myself after my own fell apart.
The one where I was safe.
The door wasn’t locked, of course. There was no time for that when they carried me away.
I pushed it open and was greeted by the warm glow of sunset pooling in through the balcony window and spilling across the living room floor.
The space had no business looking so cozy after the last forty-eight hours.
I wished I’d succeeded. Failing was worse. If I’d died, I would have been spared the humiliation of Oliver seeing me at my lowest, covered in vomit, trying to end it all over a girl who didn’t want me.
Sofia wasn’t the root cause. She was simply the final straw.
A therapist might tell me it was really about my sister’s overdose when I was fifteen, or the way my birth mother chose drugs over her children.
Maybe it was the abuse that followed me into adulthood, threading itself into every relationship I touched.
Or maybe it was nothing more than good old fatherless behaviour?
The apartment was silent, and my legs refused to cooperate. Jasper’s hand pressed into the small of my back, urging me forward. He didn’t understand the gravity of my despair. This wasn’t my home. It was a prison.
“Milo?” he coaxed.
“I’m fucking working on it,” I snapped, wrapping my arms around myself and forcing my feet inside. It was like returning to the scene of a crime.
I drifted into the kitchenette, peering into the sink with morbid curiosity.
It was still coated in chunks of red-tinged bile.
For a moment, I imagined what it would be like if I’d actually managed to kill myself and someone else discovered the mess.
Would they be horrified? Filled with grief?
Or would it just be an inconvenience, another mess I’d left behind for someone else to take care of?
I gagged, covering my mouth and turning away. The burn in my throat made my eyes water, forcing me to blink rapidly. The phantom concoction of acetaminophen and bile lingered on my tongue, a bitter reminder of my failure.
Jasper hovered over me, looking past my shoulder and sighing at the mess.
If I hadn’t survived and he’d found me, would his stomach have turned the way mine did now?
Would he have cried, knowing he couldn’t save me?
I couldn’t seem to stop fantasizing about all the different ways it could have gone.
He reached around to turn on the tap, his chest brushing against mine.
My breath stuttered at the contact, threatening to burst the dam holding my emotions back.
I inhaled the thick scent of menthol and vanilla clinging to his sweater, grounding myself in the familiarity of a cologne that never changed.
He never changed.
“God, you didn’t even have the decency to clean up before they took you away?” he teased. I chewed the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking.
That dark humour was my lifeline. The only thing that kept me from drowning.
I knew with absolute certainty that I didn’t deserve someone like him.
Someone who could watch me crash again and again, never tiring of pulling me back to my feet.
Even now, I was waiting for the moment he’d finally give up on me.
The only person whose darkness reflected my own.
I elbowed him gently in the ribs and then squeezed past him toward the fridge.
Even though I knew it would be empty, I opened it up and stared at what was probably half a carton of expired milk.
I hadn’t had the energy to feed myself all week, and the act of starvation felt like an alternative, slower route to my well-deserved death.
“I need a smoke.” I groaned, closing the fridge and digging through my sweater.
My fingers found the mangled pack of cigarettes and lighter, and as I brought them to my lips, I inhaled deeply through the cardboard, chasing the scent of tobacco.
My head buzzed, nicotine addiction begging to be sated.
“You sure that’s a good idea with how messed up your stomach is?” Jasper shot me a patronizing glance as he rinsed the sink and turned the tap off.
“I wasn’t allowed outside at the hospital,” I complained, heading for the balcony. “Let me have this. If I puke, I puke. Someone’ll be getting a show.”
The sliding door unlocked with a click. I pushed it open, stepping onto the balcony and crushing dried autumn leaves beneath my feet. Canadian winter was on its way, the chill stiffening my joints as I lit up.
Smoky wisps curled around my face with the first drag, and every exhale carried a little tension away. I teetered forward, glancing over the railing—only the third floor, I noted with detachment.
I couldn’t help flirting with death. It felt against my will, imagining every way I could kill myself when I entered a room. I’d drive my car and fantasize about veering into traffic, my body on autopilot, still heading to the next destination. It was just a thought.
Until sometimes, it wasn’t.
I felt Jasper’s presence well before I saw him. When I glanced back, it was only the second time I’d found the nerve to meet his eyes since he’d picked me up. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how. Neither did I. No words were going to fix what was wrong with me.
“Clearly, I can’t leave you alone.” He gestured vaguely between us.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m a perfectly functional adult and have never been a danger to myself,” I said, spreading my arms. The dizziness surged, and nausea followed. I took another drag anyway.
“Uh-huh. Seriously, what’s the plan? Someone should be here with you.” He draped an arm over my shoulders and pulled me close.
It was criminal that he was the taller one, for someone two years younger. I wanted to push him away, but the ache in my chest won out. I reached up and gripped the arm hanging off my shoulder, squeezing it instead. It was a tiny, silent surrender.
“You won’t get rid of me until I know you’re gonna be okay,” he stated firmly.
“I already messaged Oliver. He’s gonna come spend a few days with me, so I’m not alone.” The last word fell from my lips bitterly.
“That’s good,” he said slowly, tightening his hold. “Anything you need. Please. Call me.”
“Okay,” I whispered. The thought of him leaving made my insides twist up in knots. He was the closest thing I had to home, but asking him to stay felt like too much. Mom needed him more than I did.
With a final puff, I peeled away from him. I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray and fled inside, desperate to escape the tension. We hadn’t talked about the why yet. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. He knew about the breakup and how I coped—or rather, how I didn’t cope with loss.
When we were younger, there were more nights than I cared to remember that Jasper was forced to listen to all of my lovers’ spats through the floorboards that separated our rooms. He never brought it up or forced me to talk about it, and I was sure he’d been too afraid to intervene.
I didn’t blame him.
We were only kids.
My feet dragged along the carpet toward the bedroom, the door slightly ajar. I reached out to hold the walls on either side of me, starting to tremble, my limbs growing weaker and weaker the closer I got. I wasn’t sure I could face the emptiness that waited for me inside.
The door creaked ominously as I nudged it open fully, and I was at last forced to face the evidence of my world collapsing.
I tried to tell myself not to look, but I’d already stolen a glance, catching sight of the dirty clothes strewn across the floor, the unmade bed, and band posters clinging to the walls with little more than hopes and dreams. I’d overreacted and started destroying things, and I just hadn’t gotten around to undoing the damage before deciding to send myself over the edge.
I didn’t really want to clean up, either.
This way, I wouldn’t forget that I was a worthless piece of shit who didn’t deserve love.
Unable to resist the temptation of wallowing in my self-pity a little longer, I gravitated to the side of the bed and picked up the pillow in the spot Sofia used to sleep, pressing it to my face.
It’d barely been a week, and the smell of her had already faded.
I held my breath, knowing that I would finally unravel as soon as I let it go.
And I did. My chest shook as I exhaled, the air escaping my lungs in choppy hiccups I couldn’t control. It turned to heaving, and I buried my face into the pillow, openly sobbing. My mind reeled from her absence like a man in mourning, only she wasn’t dead.
She was sick of me.
“Is she coming to get any of this stuff or…” Jasper’s voice was soft and hesitant behind me. His hand found my back, rubbing soothing circles through my shirt that made my skin tingle. “Should we just have a bonfire and burn it all, for old times’ sake?”
“No.” I choked on a pitiful laugh.
I appreciated the way he never brought attention to my breakdown, always looking for a way to distract me.
At the same time, I hated that he had seen me like this enough times to know exactly what I needed.
My episodes were frequent enough that he’d learned how to deal with me, perfecting it to a science.
“She’s not coming back,” I croaked. “She’s just gone.”
“Look at me, Milo.” Jasper pulled my shoulder, turning me toward him and yanking the pillow out of my hands. He tossed it on the bed and cupped my face, demanding my attention. “You are my most important person. You know that, right?”
I looked down, shying away from his question. When I didn’t answer right away, he pinched my cheeks roughly. “Fuck, okay, yes. I’m your most important person.”
“Damn right.” He smirked, releasing my face and patting me on the shoulder. The warmth of his hand seeped through my shirt and into my bones. “You don’t need her. Not when you have me.”
His hand fell away, the loss of contact making my already sensitive stomach churn.
I rubbed my shoulder where it had been, watching him rummage through my bedroom from top to bottom.
I knew what he was looking for, but I didn’t offer any guidance.
If he didn’t find anything, I’d take it as a sign to try again—not that I needed a sign.
If I wanted to end it, I would.
Regrettably, he didn’t miss a thing. Jasper found every loose pill bottle, whether it contained over-the-counter medications or controlled prescriptions, and stuffed them into his ever-present college backpack, which he wore like a second skin.
“Where’s her key?” He held out his hand palm-side up.
“I don’t know,” I lied, fidgeting nervously.
“You’re full of shit.” He nudged his head toward his expectant hand. “Hand it over.”
“Fine.” I scowled, reaching into my pocket and producing the spare key to my apartment. How dare he inconvenience me by trying to keep me from offing myself?
“Don’t give me that face,” he said tartly, taking the key and zipping up his bag. “We both know what you’re like. You’re lucky I don’t take everything and turn this into a padded room.”
My shoulders slumped, and I stuffed my hands into my sweater pouch, fingers brushing over the cigarette pack absentmindedly. He always made me feel like a baby, never missing an opportunity to scold or mock me. I didn’t hate it.
“How’s Mom?” I asked suddenly, a pathetic attempt to prolong his departure.
“She’s Mom,” he answered stiffly, straightening up and pushing back his hair.
We shared a grimace.
It was the family curse. We all struggled with mental health.
But I loved her like a real mother. She was warm and kind, and everything I missed about my own mom. I’d stopped grieving my birth mother’s death ages ago. She’d been dead long before that, back when my stepfather stole the light from her eyes.
I hated her for being sick. She’d turned into something bitter and ugly, and the same hands that once loved and nurtured began to strangle.
My body recalled the damage before my brain could catch up, my head throbbing with a dull ache.
The way she’d dragged me by my hair. The impact of my skull colliding with the wall.
Jasper’s mom would never.
When my girlfriend at the time had dropped me off on their doorstep and begged Jasper to convince his mom to take me in, she didn’t hesitate. It didn’t matter how little space they had; she made it work. I was never a burden, not to her.
I didn’t want Jasper to leave so soon. I regretted how little time we’d spent together after I moved out with Sofia.
It didn’t feel right, having so much distance between us after all the years we spent with our lives fully intertwined.
A part of me was missing, and I wasn’t sure anymore if it was the girl.
The apartment buzzer cut through the awkward silence that had fallen over us, and we made our way out to the intercom by the front door. Knowing the only person it could be was Oliver, I held down the button to let him inside.
“You gonna head out now?” I asked, stomach sinking as my face betrayed my dismay.
“Yeah.” Jasper sighed, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he leaned down to slip on his shoes. “It’s the weekend, Milo. You know I work at the bar on the weekends.”
I knew that, of course.
“Right.” I nodded reluctantly, the air between us heavy. “I knew that.”