I PULL THE curtains aside as soon as I’m back in my room. Olly’s standing at his window, his forehead pressed into his fist, his fist pressed into the glass. How long has he been waiting? It takes him a second to realize I’m there, but it’s enough time for me to see his fear. Evidently my function in life is to strike fear into the hearts of those who love me.
Not that Olly loves me.
His eyes roam over my body, my face. He makes a typing gesture with his hands, but I shake my head. He frowns, makes the gesture again, but I shake my head again. He disappears from the window and returns with a marker.
R U OK?
I nod. Are you? I mouth.
YES. IM?
I shake my head.
GROUNDED?
I nod.
NO INTERNET?
I nod.
HOW LONG?
I shrug.
SURE YOU’RE OK?
I pantomime excellent health, existential angst, regret, and an enormous sense of loss, all via a single nod.
We stare mutely at each other.
I’M SORRY?
I shake my head. A gesture that says: No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s not you. It’s this life.