v impressed with anyone who understands the title of this chapter

little note: a lot of people have guessed in previous chapters that Liam has seizures. His issue will be really obvious later, but I'll tell you now that it's not that or anything like it. Also, I wouldn't recommend trying to figure it out using the ticking in his head. That's a personal symptom inspired by a single real-life person's experience, not a widely held symptom of any disease or disorder.

this chapter is real short, so I'll try to update again soon (keyword = try)

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"I'm going with a couple of friends to this club off of Kenman Drive tonight," Stevie told me the next afternoon, pausing our intense Uno game to look up at me expectantly. "You wanna come?"

    I took advantage of her distraction and put a green six down over her blue nine; she took no notice. Smiling deviously at my little cheat, I said, "Uno. Yeah, sure. Is there an occasion?"

     She stared at me dryly, as if I was missing something obvious. When all I did in response was raise my eyebrows, she sighed and said, "You're so hopeless, bub."

     "What?" I laughed, and she rolled her eyes. "What is it?"

     "It's New Year's Eve, headass," she said, rolling her eyes. She absentmindedly placed down a card.

     "Never said I was smart, sis," I scoffed. "I'll go see if Jamie wants to come."

     I started to get up, but Stevie called out indignantly. "Wait! At least finish the game first!"

     "Oh, yeah." Not even glancing at the last card she'd put down, I tossed my final move — a wild card — onto the messy pile. "There," I said flippantly. "Finished."

     Stevie made a face. "You're an asshole," she said.

     "Hey, I won fair and square," I said, which was a complete lie and I felt absolutely no remorse for it. Smirking because I was an asshole, I left her on the couch and crossed to the door of her roommate's bedroom, still feeling way too smug and proud of myself as I stepped inside. Jamie was on the bed sitting cris-crossed with his back facing me, looking down at something. "Stevie and her friends are going clubbing tonight, you wanna come?"

     As I spoke, I noticed what Jamie was bent over: a large open textbook. "Are you . . . studying?" I chuckled disbelievingly, leaning back against the door with my hands in my pockets. "Jamie, you realize we're on vacation, right? Why the hell are you reading about . . . I squinted at the book, quickly recognizing its dark green color. "Anatomy?"

     Jamie didn't answer. My grin fell, and I pushed myself away from the door with my foot, stepping closer to the bed.

     "Someone's focused," I said, though I got the feeling he wasn't focused at all. I could feel his agitation from where I stood. He was upset. "Hey, everything okay?"

     I winced when the textbook suddenly slammed shut.

     Jamie's hands were trembling as he dragged them roughly through his hair — something he always did when he was stressed, I noticed.

    "No," his voice was thick. He slammed his palm down against the cover of the book with a sharp, quivering breath, then rolled his fingers into a fist. "I can't fucking do it."

     I wanted to step forward, to join him on the bed and put a hand on his back and make him feel better. But I still didn't know exactly where we stood. I didn't know what was overstepping when he was like this. So I stayed tentatively where I was, by the edge of the matters.

    "Can't do what?"

    Instead of responding, he ran his hands over his face, then into his hair again, then back down. "This!" he hit the textbook again, this time with a closed fist. And again, and again, until I rushed around to the side of the bed and grabbed his wrist to stop him, turning him toward me in the process. He gasped at the sudden contact and I gasped at his appearance, because he was red-eyed and tear streaked and his hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat.

     "Stop!" I said when he tried to struggle out of my grip, and his arms fell limp. "What are you doing? What's wrong?"

     I hardly recognized him. His eyes were distraught and wild, and for a moment they were unfocused as he stared at me, like he couldn't recognize me. Then he blinked, and in came the clarity, but his distress never left. It seemed impossible that just the day before, the same kid had been cursing in French and geeking out in a museum and laughing on a canoe.

     "Tell me what's wrong," I said again, cautiously letting go of his wrists.

     Jamie swallowed. "What's wrong is that I can't fucking do it."

     I shook my head. "What does that mean, Jamie?" I asked. I didn't understand.

    "It means that this is bullshit!" he snapped. "Everyone always says that being better feels so good, that my life will be so much greater if I just fucking try, but I am trying and everything just feels worse!" he swiped his hand angrily against the textbook, and it fell to the floor in a flutter of pages. I had to jump to avoid it crashing on my foot.

     "Jamie —" I started to say, but he held up his hand and I fell silent.

     "No, just — just listen!" he said, and he stood from the bed, frustration and anger in every movement. "I need somebody to listen before I drive myself fucking insane!"

     So I stood quiet and I listened.

     "Do you know why I'm doing any of this?" asked, and his voice was raised, but not at me. He was staring at the wall, as if it would give him some kind of answer. "Because my sister's too damn observant for her own good, and she notices things like shit report cards and cigarette packs! I can't fucking hide a thing from her!"

     He stormed over to the wall and pressed his hands and his head against it, his shoulders rising with every strained breath. "And what the hell am I supposed to say when she starts asking questions? I have one more year with her before my parents can kick me out and never let me see her again until she's old enough to do things on her own -- if she doesn't hate me by then! And the fact that she might spend that year thinking — knowing — what a goddamn mess I am, it killed me!" He punched the wall with the side of his fist, and a loud thud echoed through the room. "It fucking killed me! I'm trying so fucking hard to be better for her, but I can't do it!"

     "Yes you can," I said, grabbing his wrists again as he aimed another strike. I whirled him around to face me. "Jamie, you can — and you are."

     "The thing is that I don't want to!" New tears fell down his cheeks as his voice caught. "Liam, you don't understand — I want — I just want to fucking destroy myself — so bad it literally hurts, right here!" he yanked one hand from my grasp and held his chest, right below his neck. "It's suffocating! It's so suffocating, and I wish it would just fucking strangle me already, because that would — it's better than trying to improve for someone else! Do you have any idea how that feels?"

     He pushed me away by the chest. "Of course you don't!" He was almost yelling now, and I was sure he didn't realize it. "I'll tell you, Liam! It feels bitter — like soap or some shit — like someone shoved a bar of fucking soap down my throat and it's stuck there! I just want to fail out of school —" he kicked the textbook, sending it spinning across the floor, "— and smoke until my lungs give out and let someone rip me fucking open until I fall apart!"

    "Why?" I cried, and there was a quiver in my voice because I hated this, hated hearing him say that, hated knowing that he thought it, hated having no idea how to help. "Why would you—"

     "Why?" Jamie exclaimed. "Because life is shit, Liam! Life is really, really shit! All it is is a bunch of — it's just — it's getting up your hopes to be let down every time! I hoped that I was just going through a phase, but I'm still a fucking faggot! I hoped my parents would accept me, and now I'm an unwanted stranger in my own house! I hoped I'd be the older brother in all — in the movies, who . . . who drives his little sister to prom and hates all of her boyfriends and takes pictures of her at graduation, but now I won't even see her graduate elementary school! I hoped she'd never see this side of me but she did, and then I hoped I'd be able to get better for her but I can't!"

    He stared at me, almost accusingly, with that unfocused look back in his eyes now. "And you . . ." he trailed, raising a finger to point. His voice had fallen dramatically. "You're incredible. You're so fucking amazing, and you're just another hope that'll never amount to anything but pain for me."

    "That's not true," I said, shaking my head fervently, taking a step forward and cringing when I saw him nearly take a step back. "Jamie, that's not true — life is shit now, but it won't be forever, you just have to — God, I don't know what you have to do!" I said hysterically, turning my gaze up to the ceiling. "I don't know, Jamie, but stop saying that stuff! You've gotta stop . . ."

     When I looked back down at him, he was struggling, opening his mouth but finding no words.

    "I c—" his voice was ragged and tired and defeated. Everything about him was, and he seemed to lose the ability to keep himself upright, like his outburst had physically drained him. He stumbled forward, and I reached out before he could fall, dragging him into my chest. My heart was racing painfully, and I was sure he could feel it. I could feel his, erratic and undone and just like him.

     My chest hurt. My stomach hurt. My head hurt, because he'd just given me the deepest look inside his mind he'd ever allowed, and I wished I could unsee it.

     Not that I could unsee it . . . I wished I could fix it — or at least know how to help him fix it. Because then I wouldn't be going through every interaction we'd ever had in my mind, knowing now that somewhere at the back of his mind had been all of that.

     I wanted to blame the withdrawal. I wanted to believe that it was making him depressed, and that what he'd just said hadn't really been his own thoughts. But Jamie had been depressed way before he went clean.

     Which was terrifying, now that I thought about it. Whatever he'd been feeling before would only be amplified for the next couple months.

    I'd known before that Jamie had a lot of destructive shit going on in his mind. I'd known that he was depressed. Until now, I hadn't fully known what that meant. I still didn't.

    I wrapped my arms around him as he cried and tried not to think about that.

     I could make him happy, yeah. I could take him out and kiss him and give him gifts. And maybe parts of his life would be better because of it. But that wouldn't make all of the bad go away. I wasn't sure anything would.

Time was secondary as we stood there. I hardly thought about the seconds or minutes — I focused on Jamie, and how he was doing. I noticed when his fingers loosened around my shirt, and when he wasn't so much sobbing but breathing, and when he stopped shaking and leaning so heavily.

    "Sorry," he mumbled eventually, rubbing his face. He tried to step away but I pulled him back, and he didn't fight it. He laced his arms around my waist and tucked his head into my neck. Save for the occasional sniffle, he'd calmed down.

     "Don't be," I said, and my voice was rough. "Bed?"

    I felt him nod. Taking his hand, I pulled him gently over to the bed. I could tell he was still disoriented, because he stumbled at first. He climbed in before I did, and as soon as I sat next to him against the pillows, he curled against me.

    "You're warm," he said.

     "Are you cold?"

     "A little."

    I took off my sweater and he put it on over his long-sleeved shirt. it was huge on him, with sleeves falling past his fingers. If I wasn't so upset, I would halve smiled over how cute he looked.

     I didn't know what to say to him now. I had no advice to give. Comforting words eluded me.

     Maybe he noticed. "I'm okay," he said.

     "I don't believe you."

     "Smart."

     My phone rang. It was Stevie.

     "Is everything okay?" I could hear the worry in her voice. "What happened in there?"

     "It's f— it's better now," I said, because fine would be overstating.

     "Do you need any help?"

     "No, I think we just need . . . we're gonna relax for a while."

     I could picture her nodding. I was sure her eyebrows were knitted and her lips were pursed. She was opening her mouth to say something, then closing it again unhappily.

     "I'm going out, okay? With this girl from my marketing class. If you need me, call and I'll be right there."

     "Thanks, Stevie."

     "And about tonight, I totally get it if you guys can't come. Don't . . ." she lowered her voice, maybe wondering in Jamie could hear her. "Don't push him, okay? But don't stop him, either. If he wants to go . . . just make sure he's feeling way better, and that he's safe."

    "Yeah. Okay, yeah. Love you, bye."

    "Love you more. Remember, feel free to call me. Bye."

     A few moments later, I heard the front door close. The room was silent for a while. I could feel Jamie coming down from his high — or coming up from his low — with every minute.

     "Weren't you saying something earlier?" He asked, and I turned to look at him. "About clubbing?"

      "Don't worry about it," I shook my head. "We don't have to go."

     Jamie frowned. "I'll go if you want," he said. "I'm . . . don't overthink what just happened. I have . . . I have moments. But they pass."

     But I shook my head. "I don't think it would be good for you."

    "You can always go without me. I can handle myself here."

     I scrunched up my nose. "Why would I want to do that? If you're staying, I'm staying."

     I didn't mean to upset him, but he grimaced and heaved a sigh. "Liam, you know you're not my boyfriend, right?"

     I didn't say anything. I averted my gaze.

     "I didn't meant that in a harsh way," he took my chin in his hand, making me look at him. "I didn't. I just mean that . . . if you start giving things up for me now, you're gonna get sick of this real fast, and . . . I don't want you to get sick of it. Not yet. I want to stretch this out for as long as I can."

      As long as I can. We'd only just gotten started, but he was already talking like we were finite. I guess we were, for more reasons than one, but I didn't want to think about that.

      "I'm not giving it up for you," I told him. "If I'm going out, I want to have someone to dance with. I want that to be you. And I'd rather stay here and chill and watch the ball drop than drag you somewhere where we won't have a good time."

     Jamie was still frowning, so I added, "We'll see, okay? We've got all day to decide. If you're feeling a lot better later, we can go. If not, we stay. Either way, we have fun. Deal?"

     Jamie kissed my chest through my shirt. "Okay."