Ziri Meziani does not want friends.
Born to an unremarkable town in southern England, Ziri spends most of his time in his head. His parents and his therapist tell him that he "shouldn't spend so much time alone", but to Ziri, other people are an inc...
Dal must have carried me upstairs because I woke up in bed. Still in yesterday's clothes and with pain echoing from my head to my feet, every muscle seized up to the point of immobility. I wanted nothing more than to bury myself into the mattress and never rise, but a glance at my phone informed me I'd slept around the clock, and I knew the longer I stay, the more embarrassing it'll be.
But I've deteriorated onto the second-last stair like a wind-up toy run out of energy, unable to continue until someone comes along and twists the blades in my spine.
Whispers drift from the dining table. They're waiting for me. The urge to throw open the front door and run until my ankles twist and my lungs cleave in half overwhelms me, but when I finally move, it's to drag my feet through the living room.
Baba and Miles lift their heads to me in unison, cutting off their hushed conversation. Stillness shrouds the room, not the silence of a funeral prayer, rather the morning after New Year's or a wedding when people have partied through the night and now have to wait for taxis to pick them up before they finally get to crash into bed.
My voice interrupts it, nails on a chalkboard. 'Where's Dal?' I didn't intend it to come out so accusatory.
Baba lifts an exhausted hand to gesture through the back door. 'He's outside with your mother.'
Through the window, I find them on our rusting garden chairs, backdropped by overgrown rhododendrons. Each holds a mug of tea in sealed fingers that look like they might crumble to dust if someone were to remove the cups. The tea has been forgotten overnight.
As I watch, Dal says something which evokes a tired laugh from Iya as if they're old friends who moved to different continents in the formative years of their careers and have now been reunited in retirement without a slight dent in their bond.
'They've talked all night,' Miles says, voice hoarse. I don't dare to meet his eye but he reads my question nonetheless and inclines his head in a lazy version of a shrug to answer that he doesn't know what about.
Baba stands up. 'You need breakfast.'
He ushers me to sit and collects a large plate of shakshuka and avocado salad, three pieces of bread wedged to the edge. Then, like a dessert that'll motivate me through the main course, my meds. He stays behind me as I eat, alternating between rubbing the top of my spine and caressing my head to help me keep it down.
Once half an egg is all that's left, Baba squeezes my shoulder and pulls back. 'I'm going to tell them you're awake.' It's a guise to leave me and Miles alone. I hear his voice in my mind add"to give you privacy".
But when the door shuts behind Baba, I opt to pretend Miles isn't there. Slice my egg into pieces, then even smaller ones. Don't eat any of them.
I should give him more credit. He's still here. That means something when he could've run down the street, screaming for help. He doesn't, nor does he concede to fetishise my disorders, to make me the broken muse of hundreds of baroque paintings to feed voyeurists.
Meeting all of me has changed nothing except saturate him with compassion, and that is a million times more terrifying than disgust. I have no survival kit for this.
He must sense my discomfort. 'I hope it's okay I'm here... Your parents said I could stay.'
The morning roughness in his voice scratches an itch in the back of my mind that I only become aware of as it subsides, the relief so intense my eyes roll into my head. Has it been there all my life? And what am I supposed to do now that I'm aware of it? Wake up to discomfort for the rest of my mornings and pray I might hear him speak at least once?
Unable to summon words, I shrug.
I shove my empty plate aside and pry open the Thursday locker on the pill box. Despite the audience, I place them in a row in front of me: 2 mg diazepam, 150 mg lithium, 150 mg lithium, 150 mg lithium, 200 mg quetiapine, 300 mg carbamazepine.
Whatever sympathy Miles had, this will surely get rid of it. I don't even care. I don't care. I don't even care.
I brace for him to ask, to challenge me, to peel me layer by layer. Please do. I've prepared for this. I'm ready.
When he speaks, I freeze. 'D'you wanna go swimming?'
Still silent, I gesture at the door to the back garden. "They won't let me. They think I'll drown myself."
He understands. 'I'll go ask.'
I'm left alone until he returns a minute later to say that we've got permission. What did he bargain with? Or do they simply trust him to be a lifeguard?
We leave without taking trunks or towels. We'll probably regret that later. The sky's overcast and the air vaguely warm; we can't rely on the weather to dry us.
The only interruption of our tired silence is the scuff of my trainers against the sidewalk. "Pick up your feet", Iya's voice rings in my head, but I don't. As if tipsy, I'm unable to walk a straight line and, several times, crash into him. "Sorry. I'm sorry." I mouth apologies.
At the path into Summer, I finally compel sound from my vocal cords, albeit only a feeble chirp. 'How was football?'
His gaze falls onto the side of my face. For several seconds, he wonders whether it's a snide remark or a genuine question. 'Grand.' The memory makes him beam warmth over the short distance between us. 'We won four-nil.'
The path is hardly wide enough to accommodate two people, yet neither of us falls out of step to walk behind the other. Bilberry shrubs tickle my ankles and snag the hem of my skirt. Moss sinks under my weight. And my arm brushes against his.
'Did you score?'
'Nah, I play midfield mostly.'
I glance at him, still not daring his face, so I confess to his jugular notch. 'I don't know what that means.'
'And I'd love to explain it to you but I've got better things to do with my time.'
He held onto it all this time, waiting for the opportunity to throw it back in my face, but now, all he can do is laugh. An unbridled laugh that only grows when I shove Miles into the shrubbery. It wakes up the nature around us, and suddenly we're drowned in chirping crickets and birdsong.
My gaze finally ventures up to find his waiting for me. His eyes have nothing to hide, no ulterior motives are buried in them. He sees me and desires to do nothing but thank me for the privilege.
Cheeks burning, I look down. If it's not a bother for you, I'd love for you to look at me like this every day.
'S'pose I'll quit now, anyway,' he says, thinking out loud. I'm not sure if the strum of fear is actually in his voice or if my imagination put it there.
It doesn't sound like he wants a reaction, so I say nothing.
Notes
Shakshuka: North African egg dish with tomato sauce and vegetables
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