We did not have anything better to do with our time. When you are young, that is often the case.

The windows to my room were open, letting any stray wind wash over the humidity in the house. It was quiet, but you brought your chaos with you. I did not mind. It was too empty inside, both the space enclosed by walls and the void, by flesh. You did not see it, but perhaps, it was not what you needed or wanted to see. Nobody wanted to be reminded by their imperfections or by the truths they tried so hard to run away from.

You were on the floor, cross-legged, and memory would tell me how you kept glancing up at me on my perch at the bed. I would throw you pages after pages, my hands too cramped to write any more goddamned word to satisfy your music-stained mind. You would catch them as they flutter in the wind before sliding towards your feet as if they were meant to reach you no matter how hard I wrench them away.

I would watch your lips pressed together as you read what I wrote, teeth sometimes digging into them as you thought. Then, you would grab your guitar, which lay trapped between your arms and legs, and strum a few chords. You would hum, first a tune, then a whole verse with my words laced around it.

Amazing. You were amazing. Have I told you that? I could not remember, even though it was the only thing that mattered during those strange and rare moments.

You did not have anything better to do with your time, and with a house inches away from an ungrateful wildfire, you were better off not being there. With nothing but the hollow husk of your guitar slung behind you, you lugged the weight of the world into my front door. You showed up, and with a lopsided grin and little shrugs, I welcomed you.

When you have nowhere else to go, what made you think of me? What made you realize an empty house with traces of strangers in it was better than a hell with everyone you thought you knew burning inside it? I should have asked you, if not aloud, then through the hidden messages I send through the verses you tried bringing to life. But I did not.

Now, you have latched onto the work of recording a demo. You were a dreamer, one who showed up to change my life without ever changing yours. And it was perfect, like how you walked into my space with your head held high, how you pulled back my curtains and watched the silent film that was my life, and how you stayed and clapped, as if it was worthy of your time. I never told you, but it was perfect.

You were perfect.

So, I did not understand why you would want imperfect things, and by imperfect things I meant the discarded page I crumpled when I realized how my ignorance bled all over it. You must have noticed me crossing out lines and blackening the thoughts as if to ignite them the way they blazed a trail in my mind. Those did not come from me, and I would never say they came from me.

"What are you doing? This is nice," you said, holding up one of my discards in front of your face.

Never had I risen from my bed and scramble towards you that fast. "That's none of your business," I answered in a tone that must have grated everything you believed to be desirable about me. But you knew, did you not? You knew I was never meant to be anything more than an unknown heathen, cursing the world with nothing but paltry claims.

And cursing the world was what I should be doing, not telling you how to live even through the faith I should have never been capable of. You saw through it because even though I tucked the page away, even as I showed you my back for you to stab without thinking, you did not move. You stayed, with your head craned up to me. I never saw your face because I was busy hiding my own, but somehow, I knew.

You were smiling.

"Why do you hate it?" you asked. "It has a good message. Hopeful. Happy."

I whirled to you, fists balled until my wrists hurt. "And that's the problem," I replied. And that was it. I was not willing to lend you further reason nor hear your words about it.

"Can I have it?"

Your voice must have cut closer to begging because I remember the guilt. I remember the regret when I stared you down and scowled. "No," I said.

You did not argue. You knew better than to. My words are mine, and they should stay that way. If I decide they contain enough hope to last me a lifetime, they do. If I say you cannot take my words as yours, you will not.

But I knew better now. Had I given it that afternoon, perhaps you would have clung to it as if it could save you. You would have held on, and you would have told me. You would have fought, and I would have heard the sounds of war from far away, seen the wounds and stitched them up myself.

Had you gotten what you wanted in the way you wished, you would not have fulfilled my only request in the worst way possible. Had I been kinder, had I been less of a mess than I had been, perhaps, you would still be here.

And maybe, you would hear these words without me having to write them down.