When she finally faces me, the tears are gone but her voice is cold. Hollow. And it’s almost like she can’t even believe she’s saying the words when she says, “I kissed you. Did you think I was a machine then, too?”
My mind goes suddenly blank. “Maybe?”
I hear her sharp intake of breath. Pain flashes across her face.
Oh my God, I’m worse than stupid.
I’m a bad human being.
I have no idea what’s wrong with me. I need to stop talking. I want to not be doing this. Not be here. I want to go back to my room and go to sleep and not be here. But something is broken—my brain, my mouth, my general motor controls.
Worse: I don’t know how to get out of here. Where is the eject button for escape from conversations with terrifying, beautiful women?
She says: “You honestly think I would do something like that—you think I would kiss you like that—just to manipulate you?”
I blink at her.
I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare. Guilt and confusion and exhaustion and anger fuse together, escalating the chaos in my brain to the point of pain and suddenly, incomprehensibly, my head pops off.
Desperate, stupid—
I can’t stop shouting.
“How am I supposed to know what you would or wouldn’t do to manipulate someone?” I shout. “How am I supposed to know anything about you? How do I even get to be in the same room as someone like you? This whole situation is bananas.” I’m still shouting. Still trying to figure out how to calm down. “I mean, not only do you know how to murder me in a thousand different ways, but, considering the fact that you’re, like, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life— I mean, yeah, it makes a lot more sense that you were just messing with me than it does for me to believe in some alternate universe where you actually find me attractive.”
“You are unbelievable!”
“And you’re clearly insane.”
Her mouth falls open. Literally falls open. And for a second she looks so angry I think she might actually rip the throat out of my body.
I backtrack.
“Okay, I’m sorry—you’re not insane—but twenty minutes ago you were accusing me of being in love with my best friend, so, to be fair, I think my feelings are warranted.”
“You were looking at her like you were in love with her!”
“Jesus Christ, woman, I look at you like I’m in love with you!”
“I— Wait. What?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Nothing. Never mind. I have to go.”
“Kenji—”
But I’m already gone.
Three
When I get back to my room I shut the door and sag against it, sinking to the floor in a sad, pathetic heap. I drop my head into my hands and, in a jarring moment, I think— I wish my mom were here.
The feeling sideswipes me so fast I can’t stop it in time. It grows quickly, spiraling out of control: sadness breeding sadness, self-pity circling me mercilessly. All my shitty experiences—every heartbreak, every disappointment—choose this minute to tear me open, dining out on my heart until there’s nothing left, until the grief eats me alive.
I crumble under the weight of it.
I duck my head into my knees, wrap my arms around my shins. Shocks of pain unfurl in my chest, fingers breaking through my rib cage, closing around my lungs.
I can’t catch my breath.
At first, I don’t feel the tears running down my face. At first I just hear my breathing, harsh and gasping, and I don’t understand the sound. I lift my head, stunned, and force out a laugh but it feels foreign, stupid. I’m stupid. I press my fists against my eyes and grit my teeth, driving the tears back into my skull.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.
I feel off, unbalanced. Aching for something. I’m losing sight of my purpose, my sense of direction. I always tell myself that I’m fighting every day for hope, for the salvation of humanity, but every time I survive only to return to yet more loss and devastation, something comes loose inside of me. It’s like the people and places I love are the nuts and bolts keeping me upright; without them, I’m just scrap metal.
I sigh, long and shaky. Drop my face in my hands.
I almost never allow myself to think about my mom. Almost never. But right now, something about the darkness, the cold, the fear, and the guilt—my confusion over Nazeera— I wish I could talk to my mom.
I wish she were here to hold me, guide me. I wish I could crawl into her arms like I used to, I wish I could feel her fingers against my scalp at the end of a long night, massaging away the tension. When I had nightmares, or when Dad was gone too long looking for work, she and I would stay up together, holding each other. I’d cling to her and she’d rock me gently, running her fingers through my hair, whispering jokes in my ear. She was the funniest person I ever knew. So smart. So sharp.