Chapter 13
He hadn’t heard from Takahiro. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d started a new email to the boy, only to throw it away moments later. He wanted to talk to him, to ask what was going on with him, how was he doing, how was he holding up, and did he get his essay done, and why didn’t he pester Hiro anymore – but he couldn’t bring himself to do it without stirring the slurry of vileness and guilt and uneasiness and everything else he tried to keep down. So he just had to wait.
At times he didn’t even know what he was hoping for. Did he want Takahiro to contact him? Or did he want some confirmation that Takahiro would never try to contact him ever again?
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He was wearing away. He thought his life had been coming back together, slowly but surely, but that had been… optimistic. A complete misjudgement on his part. Because he wasn’t fine. He was about the furthest thing from fine that he could possibly be. It wasn’t quite like when the bouts of depression would come around again, and every thought that entered his head served to remind him that the world was still awful and bad things still happened for no good reason. No, it was something else… Something quick, something sinister. And, without anyone to talk it out with, he turned to medicine.
He hadn’t taken any pills in a while. Every now and again he did, but he hadn’t needed to in a few years. And he always let his brother know when he was back on them again – that was the deal. But not this time.
He still had some left over. Expired, maybe. He probably shouldn’t have taken them. He should’ve had the antidepressants – because they were safer, because they treated all symptoms, because there was less of a risk in getting hooked. But they were slow. And helplessly tired and strung out and thinking too much at three in the morning on a Wednesday made him desperate. He had a large drink of water with the pills, telling himself that it was OK because he was only taking a small dose anyway, low for an adult. He only wanted just enough to put him to sleep. To make the nightmares leave. To make the worry stop.
He was drowsy at work the next day. Some people said he looked tired, others said he looked hungover. Someone rudely called out to him that he looked like shit, and he would’ve gotten mad, except that his colleague was probably right. He hadn’t really found the time to do laundry, or shave, or have proper meals, or do anything really. Even Morgan spared him a concerned glance or two when they passed in the corridor, and Hiro winced to think that his ex-boyfriend might’ve thought he was responsible in some way.
He wasn’t good to operate any machinery that day, heavy or delicate, so he opted to work on a whole load of reports instead. He drank coffee like water, just to stay awake, but all it seemed to do was increase the typos in his work, until he felt like it had nulled the positive effects of his anti-anxiety medication altogether. He’d have to pick some more pills up later. He was almost out.
He’d only meant to take a few, but it soon became crystal to him that he wasn’t functioning as a normal human should, and he needed help again. He carried nausea like a thick, hot knot in his abdomen, and Hiro had never really stopped to conceptualise just what hell truly was before, but he knew now that it was feeling like this. It was feeling like death, but somehow still living.
It was becoming the very thing that had wrecked him.
He was practically slumped over his desk when his boss came down to see him, and he knew he was undoubtedly sending only the best of impressions as he slowly drew himself up to stare unfocused at his boss. But Brian was a nice man. He always had such nice things to say about everyone, and especially Hiro. But, today, he was clearly struggling; he looked right into Hiro’s eyes and admitted in a quiet, sympathetic voice that Hiro was the only one this month whose output had been remarkably low, whose innovation was seriously lacking. Even with the free time he’d been recently granted, he still had little to show for it. His boss may as well have outright said that Hiro was this month’s stunning disappointment.
By the time his boss had finished politely informing Hiro that he had better start increasing his productivity, and soon, his face was red. Brian left, and a few of Hiro’s more competitive colleagues hooted with laughter and clapped him on the back, and he was sure he heard someone sneer, “you peaked too early”, and not only did it annoy the fuck out of him, but it terrified him too. That had always been a sore point. He’d been a child prodigy, but he wasn’t a child anymore. He was just an ordinary person. He wasn’t even thirty yet and he was already subpar.
He told his colleagues to fuck off and turned back to his work, acting like he couldn’t have cared less, but it was a crippling blow to his self-esteem. His self-image. It made him want to sit in a bathroom stall for the rest of the afternoon, and he hated himself so much because what a childish and immature thing to do – what kind of adult handled things the way that he did. He couldn’t do anything right; everything he did was just one fuck-up after another. He just stumbled through life, making mistakes, making horrible mistakes, and then he tried to pretend that they’d never even happened.
The only thing he had to be proud of lately was the fact that he’d made it almost a week without crying. What an impressive feat that was. Someone should’ve given him a trophy.
He couldn’t even go out with his friends for drinks anymore, when they offered. Not if he wanted to run the risk of spiking his blood pressure and making things so much worse for himself.
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He’d just been waiting for his coffee one morning. Fresh out of the queue, he’d just paid some shopped-in vendor on the street and had stepped aside for other patrons to make their purchases. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just staring off into the distance, swaying a little with the cold wind, which he was feeling more and more of these days – not at all there. He hadn’t even noticed that the vendor was calling him, “Sir… Sir… Sir,” with each new “Sir” growing in intensity and frustration. Hiro hadn’t noticed until someone gave him a push towards the irritated vendor who was leaning over his counter, holding out a cup. “Your coffee, Sir.”
Alarmed and embarrassed, he made a mad dash for it, throwing out his arm and ramming straight into the back of a lady who had accidentally stepped between him and his coffee. He was knocked straight to the ground, like a twig, while he was sure that she’d barely stumbled. He fell hard on his ass, the shock jolting up through his bones.
“Fuck,” he cussed, forgetting that there were children about. He didn’t care. He was in pain and there was a lot of it.
“O-Oh my God,” the woman who must’ve knocked him cried, and he could feel her standing over him, fretting and stammering, “I-I’m so sorry – I was on my phone and I didn’t see you, I just– are you OK?”
“Fine,” Hiro said tersely, but he didn’t think he could move just yet. He pulled up one knee and tried to push himself up, but he faltered. A sharp hiss and a small “ow” slipped out between his teeth.
“I’m so sorry – here, let me help you up.”
She put her hand out to him. That was the first thing he saw of her. Her hand. He was dimly aware that the vendor had given up on him, that people were keeping a tight line aroundthe scene. He took her hand, looked up into her face, and then pulled his hand away like he’d just been burned.
His heart went into overdrive; he felt like his chest was on the cusp of bursting. It was her. It was…
Amanda.
For all that Hiro struggled to remember people’s faces, hers was not one he had forgotten in the past eight years or so. Her name had stayed with him. He’d only seen her once, for less than an hour, but he could still see all the little differences between her now and the image of her from his memories. Leaning over him now, she was dressed like a mature businesswoman, with more subtle make-up, with eyes no longer lusty and hazy and lidded, but… It was still her. It was her freckled face, her auburn hair, her green eyes…
He began to feel like he was choking.
She retracted her hand, not understanding why he hadn’t taken it. She asked again, concern hardening her features, “Are you OK?”
“I-I’m fine,” he stammered, backing away from her, and then he realised…
She doesn’t recognise me.
Nothing registered on her face. She’d been staring at him for almost half a minute now and there was nothing – just the awkward, mortified concern for another customer she’d bumped into and had sent to the pavement. She didn’t stare at him the same way he stared at her, with eyes wide and full of fear. She looked like she didn’t even remember having met him, let alone…
Let alone…
Another face leaned down to speak to him, startling him, “Can you move, son? Should we call an ambulance?”
“What? N-No.” He backed up some more. He gritted his teeth through the pain, finding that the shock of the situation was having a slight anaesthetic effect on him, and he stumbled back to his feet, stumbling like–
Like a puppet.
He raised his head to her again, and she was frowning as she pressed for an answer, “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I…”
He didn’t know what to say. He felt like she was asking him about that night, that night that she didn’t remember, that night when they were both falling down drunkand she had kissed him and closed his door and undressed him and grabbed his wrists and pinned him down and told him he was cute and acted like she hadn’t heard him–
“I’m fine,” he insisted, walking backwards, away from her. Pedestrians barged into him, cars slammed on the brakes and honked at him, people were yelling at him to get off the road – he broke away from her gaze and turned to run as far away from her as he could, like he was trying to outrun the very memory of her.
He didn’t stop running until he was back home. Safe at home.
He leaned into his locked door. He dragged in loud, ragged breaths and shuddered them out again. “I’m fine.” He was gasping. “I’m fine.” Tears pricked at his eyes. “I’m fine.” He was safe, but nothing was slowing down. “I’m fine… I’m fine… I’m fine…”
How many times had he walked past her before. How many times had been in the same coffee line as her and just never noticed. How many times had they dinged each other’s elbows as they crossed paths and blindly murmured half-hearted apologies. It terrified him to think about. It made him never want to leave his home ever again.
You didn’t recognise Takahiro at first either…
He closed his eyes. He whimpered like he wanted it to be true. “I’m fine.”