Of course it was a breakup.
I felt guilty that it took me so long to realise what had happened. A week of radio silence and the penny finally dropped. In my defence, it’s not like we talk every day and Ken didn’t actually tell me things had ended between him and Steve. I don’t think he told anyone. His foundations had crumbled. First love, and all.
Being the person who waters his ferns when he visits his parents – because what are friends for? – I had a spare key. Those ferns had been an unhealthy obsession of his, until he met Steve.
I walked into the stuffy, stale flat, musky with the smell of unwashed person, closed windows and sluggishness; ready meals, dirty dishes and rotting garbage. The ferns were drooping. I didn’t know if they could be saved.
The bedroom door was open. As I approached, a tang I could almost taste wafted out, the sweet-sour of a creature who’d been in there too long, who’d gone there to die. It was like revealing the cave of a wounded bear. I squinted at the oblong of the bed. As my eyes adjusted, I saw Ken on top of the covers in his boxers, clutching his knees. He looked so completely still.
I was afraid to go any closer. All I could do was stare into the gloom, willing life into him. I became aware of the whoosh-whoosh of blood in my ears, of my own shallow gasps of breath. What if… but I squashed the thought. Yet there he was, motionless, in this reeking chamber.
Eventually, peering with all my will and all my might, I had the impression of tiny movements in his chest. There, that was up and that was down. My shoulders relaxed. Was he asleep? He hadn’t turned towards me.
What should I say? What could I say? He was vulnerable as an infant, his heart in tatters. Platitudes and clichés floated around my mind. Powerlessness, helplessness overwhelmed me.
What could I say? Yes, things ended with Steve, but you’ll be ok. Time heals all, you’re better off without him, lots of fish in the sea. His loss. If our positions were reversed, I’d bite my own mother were she to say these things to me. But they’re the things you say, the things everyone says.
Truth was, I’d never understood their relationship. Chalk and cheese, but my ability to comprehend their connection was irrelevant. Somehow, they were perfectly suited to each other. I couldn’t very well say: Ken, this sucks, Steve probably was your soulmate; nothing will ever be as good again; you’ll never meet anyone like him again, and every future relationship will be a pale facsimile of your time with him. There will be others, probably, but also Steve will haunt the rest of your life as the one who should have been.
I was aware that I was still avoiding going over to the bed. I considered, then dismissed the idea of opening the curtains or turning on the light. Who was I to impose the outside?
I forced myself to take the last few steps forwards. I loomed over his snail-like shape. Pushing aside the urge to hold my breath – I’d get used to cloud of unbrushed teeth, stale sweat, and tears – I sat on the bed near his head.
He whimpered. It was a fragmented, far-away sound, like a child sobbing in another room. Perspiration tickle-trickled down my back. It was too hot in the room.
For a while, the silence dragged. Banalities ran around inside my head, chased by my own tragic reflection that this may have been his great love.
With no words, no easy comfort, no obvious help, I did the only thing I could. I put my hand on his shoulder. He tightened further into his armadillo ball, recoiling from me. I kept my hand there, allowing it to move with him. I didn’t squeeze or try to pull him towards me. I didn’t get fully onto the bed to hold him tight. None of that was what he needed. Just my hand on his shoulder, and the confidence that I wasn’t going anywhere.
After a while, he began to shudder. Hiccoughy puffs emerged from the ball.
Tomorrow, once I’d seen him through the night, I would remove my hand long enough to open the curtains. But then I’d return and put it back.