Letters To A Stranger

If I could turn back time, I'd go wherever you will go

Isak's P.O.V.

"Are you okay?" Jonas asked, a strange tone of sorrow in his voice, as he examined Isak.
The blonde boy sat on the bed in silence, hands still shivering. His chest rose up and down steadily, the frantic beating of his heart had slowed down a bit.
But not enough to make Isak feel anywhere near calm.
The images of Even's body, almost lifeless, were still wandering around in Isak's head and he had to suppress another wave of tears. 

Isak lifted his head and his eyes met Jonas'.
"No, I'm not." he whispered, his voice hoarse because of all the crying.
"I'm not okay." he repeated and let his hands roam over his face, as if to wipe off all the hurt and despair.
As if it was that easy. 

He felt his friend's hand touch his shoulder, softly rubbing it.
Isak knew that Jonas probably felt very uncomfortable and helpless in the current situation but it didn't matter to Isak what Jonas did or said. All that mattered was that Isak wasn't alone and that Jonas was just here for him. 

"I don't know what to say, Isak." Jonas whispered, he sounded near the edge of crying as well.

"I just want more time with him." Isak sobbed, shaking his head gradually.
"We didn't even have one month together, not one. He is so young. We are so young. We deserve more time together, don't we?" Isak asked as he let his hands fall back down into his lap.

"Yes, of course you do. You two really are..something special. I knew it since the beginning." Jonas answered, he sounded like he had chosen his words very carefully.
Isak's eyes wandered to Jonas' eyes again and he just stared into them for a while, as if to find any source of relief in them, anything to mend the pain.

"We are. And that's why I just can't let him go. How could anybody want to let him go? It's Even. The boy with the kindest heart and the brightest smile. How could anyone want to give up on that?"

"Maybe they really think that he is suffering and want to end his pain." Jonas responded after some time.

Isak stayed silent for a while.
Then he said, his voice shaky: "Yeah, maybe."
But Isak was far from convinced.
He still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Even's own mother had given up on him. 

"I think it's best if we go to sleep now." Jonas said and got up from the bed.
"I'll get you a mattress and a sleeping bag." he continued as he made his way to the door.

Isak nodded faintly and pulled out his phone.
Three missed calls from Even's mum. She probably just wanted to convince him to give up Even as well. No, that was never going to happen.
Two new messages from Eskild, asking why he wasn't home yet. Isak sent him a quick text explaining what was going on and then turned off his phone. 

"There we go.." Jonas suddenly spoke up, causing Isak, who hadn't notice that he was back in the room, to jerk around. "It's just me." Jonas said, chuckling lightly as he threw a few pillows onto the mattress.

"Thank you."  Isak said tried to sent Jonas the most grateful smile he could manage. He couldn't put into words how glad he was to have Jonas as his friend. He smiled back as he jumped onto his own bed. 

As Isak lay in the sleeping bag and Jonas had turned off the light, the cruel, dark sadness came crawling back up inside of Isak, filling each and every one of his veins, completely taking over his body and soul.

The rest of the night, Isak tried to keep the sound of his sobs to a minimum so he wouldn't disturb Jonas.
He kept thinking how desperately he wished it was Even's arms embracing him and not Jonas' old stinky sleeping bag. 

The next morning, Isak left Jonas' flat after a quick breakfast and made his way back home. He had almost arrived at their flat, as his phone began to vibrate. Isak pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the display. It was an incoming call from Even's mother. Again. Isak stopped in his movement. What if it was something really important, though? What if Even had woken up, or what if... Isak stopped himself from thinking any further and pressed the green button.