yours.

[6] Jasper

As soon as Miles is gone, it feels like a weight's been lifted from my shoulders. His presence only added another, unnecessary layer to my incessant anxiety -- and his eyes. I shudder just thinking about them. They were like... emerald lasers, or something, boring into the back of my skull. And he just kept staring at me, like he expected something from me. Something I wasn't sure I could give.

And his freckles--

I pause halfway up the stairs.  No. I don't care about his freckles. I don't care about him.

The tips of my ears burning, I climb the rest of the way to the top of the staircase, turning right to deposit a box in my parents' room, which stands just across the hall from mine. Theirs is much larger than mine, of course, with multiple windows and two closets, and a private toilet attached. I'm setting my box down just inside the doorway when my mother emerges from one of the closets, gazing around at the empty white walls around her.

"Mum?" I call out to her, and she smiles.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she asks me, gazing past me to the hall beyond. "The house, I mean. It's so... It's a home, isn't it? I can see us spending... years, here."

I nod at her, leaning against the white doorframe beside me. "That's lovely."

"It is," she agrees. Then her eyes cut to meet mine. "Are you happy, Jasper?" When I remain silent, surprised, she adds, "You've never talked much about the move. Is this... are you happy with this?"

"It's not the first time I've moved, Mum. I'm fine."

Her gaze sharpens. "But are you happy?"

"I..." Before I can fully respond, a firm, meaty hand comes to clasp my shoulder.

My father, of course. "Just a few more things left. Come on, now." He pats me on the back, and I flinch embarrassingly at the contact. I glance back at my mother, who retreats into the other closet at the sight of my father. I glance between my parents.

It's already begun, I think sadly. Their long-established dance, when one enters a room and the other leaves, or one starts to speak and the other falls oddly silent. Never really in sync, never really compatible. 

My father and I trudge back outside to the van, where he hands me three boxes, each one heavier than the last. I can see why these were left behind for so long.

"Um, I think these..." My fingers begin to slip, and I scrabble to maintain my grip. "Too... heavy--"

My father lifts the remaining three and peers into the gaping door of the empty van. "All clear," he sighs. "Finally." He leads me back into the house and directs me into the family room, where the furniture is already completely set up. After unloading my boxes full of what I assume is my mother's fragile, weighty decor, I have a risky seat on the couch, taking a moment to observe the house in its current state. Brown packages piling up around the house, the movers traveling up and down the stairs, my own reflection in the glassy surface of the television. 

I look tired. I always look tired.