Word Count: 2104

There was a hard-backed black notebook Paris usually kept next to the old laptop on his desk. The cover was printed with a golden pentagram, joined by a variety of stickers he’d collected over the years—Tinker Bell and Mickey Mouse and Hello Kitty, pink ballet slippers and red hearts and silver stars. The pages were covered in bright pink ink. One page in particular had been struck out with black, damaged in a moment of anger and hatred and pain he hadn’t wanted to feel.

The book contained the thoughts of a boy whose sole interest was skipping class and dancing his way through life, without a care, without a plan and with no intention of ever having one, with nothing more than immature desires and insubstantial dreams—a boy whose confidence was nothing but bravado, and whose careless ways were little more than a cry for something he didn’t know how to put into words, something he wasn’t sure he even believed in.

Paris hadn’t written in this notebook for a very long time. He flipped through the third of the pages that had been written on, skimmed through a few of the entries, and frowned. He barely even recognized that boy anymore. Paris knew he still held parts of him within himself, that the feelings and the actions and the words were still a piece of who he was, but he knew he was different, too. He had a way forward now. He had hope. He had a path to follow that would lead him out of the terrible place he’d inhabited before. He felt free now, like some part of him that was previously held in chains had been released.

It was funny, he thought, how much things could change in a single year.

He lied on Chris’s bed with the notebook in front of him, much as he used to those many months ago when he would record the petty goings-on in a life that had been going nowhere—in his underwear and a shirt. He could hear the shower running. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the bathroom door, and he imagined he could see the young man behind it—undressing, stepping into the water. The image was pleasant, definitely appealing, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it for long, and turned his attention back to the notebook. It sat open to a blank page, waiting for him to begin.

He had a small collection of pens beside him—the pink pen he’d written with before, its ink half gone; a black pen he’d found in his purse, buried beneath his wallet and keys and a pen of a different sort; and a blue pen he’d snatched from Chris’s office, from a chipped coffee mug that held others like it. He studied them for a few moments, his hand very nearly reaching for the pink one, but he stopped himself before he could touch it.

He wasn’t that boy anymore, he told himself. He didn’t need to hide his pain and his loneliness behind cheerful pink ink, because there was no pain and he was no longer lonely. He was, perhaps, barely any older and only slightly wiser than he’d been at this time last year, but he was still different.

Paris hesitated a moment longer. Black, or blue? He’d used black before, once, to write foul words with an anger and an intensity he no longer felt. Blue was better, he thought. Blue was something beautiful.

And so he took the blue pen in hand, pulled off the cap, and pressed it to the blank paper. Seconds passed without a word. The only sound in the apartment came from the bathroom, and the steady spray of the shower within. Then Paris’s hand moved, and his thoughts, slow to formulate, but genuine, began to appear.

Quote:
I like the sound of running water.

I like the feel of warm sunlight on my face.

I like the way the sky looks after it rains and the clouds begin to clear.

I like the sound of laughter.

I like the feel of a warm body close to me.

I like the way people smile over unexpected joys—when it’s open, and honest, and real.

I like dancing until I ache all over, and singing until I can’t any longer, and living until I feel like I could never die.

Sometimes, I like thinking about the future—a house with a white picket fence, or flowerbeds out front that aren’t overgrown with weed, or a new kitchen with plenty of windows to let in the sun. Maybe there’ll be dinner parties and barbeques and birthdays, and a hundred other quaint, bourgeois things I used to think were garbage.

Maybe there’ll be kids running around.

Sometimes I don’t think I’d mind if there were kids.

I like the sound of Chris’s voice when he wakes up in the morning, when it’s still rough and low from sleep, and there are lines and stubble on his face and his hair is a mess as he grumbles that I left the curtains open.

I like the way his hands feel—when he touches my face, or my hair, or just holds one of mine.

I like the way he looks at me. It’s cliché, but sometimes it takes my breath away. It’s like he’s never seen anything more perfect in the entire world.


Pausing, Paris removed pen from paper and brought it to his mouth to chew on the end of it. His eyes flicked to the bathroom door again, but the water was still running. He could hear Chris singing to himself, quietly, like he thought no one could hear him. Paris smiled. His stomach gave a fluttering turn and he was suddenly more aware of the way his heart was beating—strong and steady.

He curled an arm over the opposite page of the notebook and lowered his head to rest upon it as he went back to writing. The words were slow and halting at first, but the press of his hand on paper quickly grew more firm—his thoughts, not sure, but evolving.

Quote:
I think I’m in love with him.


He stopped again, stared for a time, and then closed his eyes against the sudden onslaught of baffling emotions. He took one breath, two, and on the third he settled. His eyes opened. His hand continued to move across the page.

Quote:
I don’t know. Maybe I’m not. How are you supposed to know?

But I think I could be.

Sometimes it scares me. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be, because what if things turn out badly again?

Other times it just feels right.

I never used to believe in love. I don’t think I really knew what it was, even if I pretended I did. I don’t think I ever thought it was meant for me to have. I still don’t. Not always. But sometimes I think it’s meant for me to give.

I love my dad, even though he’s crass and he always looks grim and he barely ever has anything nice to say to anybody. I love that he used to have dreams. I just wish he hadn’t given up on them.

I love my mom. I hate that she left, but I think I understand why she did. I know what it feels like to want an escape, to want to be anywhere else in the world but here.

I love Ladon. I think he was the first person to really, honestly care about me other than my parents. But I don’t think he’d believe me if I said it. I wish he would. I wish I knew how to make him.

I love Momma Gallo, who’s easy to love, and Peter who isn’t, though he deserves it all the same. I love that they’ve accepted me, that I’m able to have a family again.

And I love Chris. I love the way I feel when I’m with him, even if I’m angry or frustrated or scared. He makes it okay to feel that way. He makes it okay to feel a lot of things. He makes it okay to be confused and hurt, or sure and happy. He makes it okay to be what I am. He makes it okay to keep living through it all.

One day, I think he’ll make it okay to die.


Another twist of the stomach, and suddenly his chest felt tight. He forced himself to focus on the faint, almost distant sound of Chris’s voice. Paris thought he could lay there for hours just listening to him speak, listening to him sing, listening to him breathe, and not feel as if he’d wasted the day.

There was something incredibly soothing in that.

Quote:
I like that Chris is kind. Sometimes I think he wastes it on people who don’t deserve it, but I can’t make myself hate that. Sometimes I don’t deserve it, but mostly he’s been kind to me.

I like that he has a temper. It shows that he’s capable of weakness, that he can be negative and angry. Sometimes when he smiles and says nice things, it’s easy to forget. I think his temper makes him perfect. I think it makes him whole.

I like that he barely knows anything about ballet, but still lets me talk about it as much as I want to, and I like that he’s always excited for me every time I dance.

I like that he can’t dance at all. It’s funny and charming. And I like that he knows it, but when I want him to he still puts in the effort.

I like that he calls me Baby, even if he doesn’t do it that often.

I like that he never cries, but isn’t afraid to show sadness.

I like that he doesn’t think less of me when I cry, which is more often than I’d like to admit.

I like that he’s smart but doesn’t let it go to his head, and that he’s always willing to help me without expecting anything back.

I like that he believes in me, even if I haven’t given him any reason to.

Even when I don’t believe in myself.


A pause. A breath. A sigh.

Quote:
I think I’m in love with him.

But I don’t think I’m ready for him to know it yet.


The shower turned off. Paris’s hand immediately stopped and he listened to the sound of the shower door open and close. Chris was no longer singing. For a while, there was silence. Paris imagined Chris was toweling dry. He looked to the door again. Then he heard the water running from the sink, but as he looked back at his notebook, he couldn’t think of anything else to write.

He’d done enough.

Paris closed the notebook firmly and set it on the bedside table, knowing it wouldn’t be read—Chris would neverdto that; he’d probably never even think it. Then he slid the cap back on his pen and placed it and the other two on top of the notebook as he hoisted himself from the low mattress. Slowly, Paris made his way to the bathroom. He knocked, waited for permission to enter, and then opened the door.

Chris stood by the sink, a fluffy towel around his waist. He was in the middle of shaving. His hair was still damp, dripping onto his shoulders, a few drops sliding forward down his chest, or backward down his back—one drop in particular traveled down the length of his spine. The boxers and t-shirt he’d worn to bed the night before littered the floor, along with the clothes he intended to change into once he was done. Paris thought he should probably do a better job keeping his clean clothes separate from his dirty clothes, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he kept his eyes on Chris.

He looked handsome. There wasn’t a single part of him that Paris didn’t like—and he marveled at that, because he could usually find at least one thing to dislike in almost everyone else. With Chris, there wasn’t anything he would change, not in either one of them—Chris or himself, or both of them together.

He wondered, when he looked at Chris, if Chris ever felt like he did when Chris looked at him—like he was perfect.

Like he was worth everything.

As Paris leaned against the doorframe, head tilted as his stomach gave another flutter, Chris smiled at him through the mirror.

Paris smiled back, content.