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- Kat
"I-I-" I stutter, completely unsure of how to respond to Michael's proposed question, "Wait, you mean Luke?"
No words escape his lips, though I can tell he's holding many a sentence prisoner. His peridot eyes are cloudy and inflamed, begging me to understand, and not judge. A sudden heaviness drops inside my chest as I finally place two and two together.
"You're in love with Luke." I state in slow confirmation, standing up from my chair, hurrying over to the nearby check-in counter and and snatching. few cheap tissues from a box before walking back over to him, my damp flip flops making horribly awkward noises as I attempt to be discrete.
Again, the painter doesn't speak, but he gratefully takes the tissues from my trembling fingers.
"Michael, that's okay." I whisper, rubbing his shoulder and inviting him to sit down, glancing through the glass. Luke has sat up, and his eyes and words are aflame with anger, muffled only by the barrier between us, "Look, you can talk to me, Mikey..."
"Kat, that's the thing," Michael accepts my offer of the seat, folding his hands across his knees, his eyes seemingly studying the simple pattern of the tile floor, sniffing, "I'm no good at talking. Emotions. Words. Commitment. They all terrify me."
I open my mouth to say something, but I close it not a moment after, knowing it's time to listen, and no longer speak.
"That's why I express myself through art, and fake my way through the rest." Michael continues, his knuckles whitening as he wrings his fingers anxiously, "I deny everything else. That's why I can't bring myself to tell him. I-I mean, I've known Luke since we were kids. He's been my best friend for nearly that long. I've watched him suffer through breakups, addiction, parental trouble; I've fallen for him and he doesn't even know I'm into guys, because I can't express myself in a way that he can't understand."
His voice finally breaks after raising significantly in frustration, and he crumbles into his hands, pouring out his emotions that he couldn't possibly find the colors to describe.
"Michael, you shouldn't be afraid. What you just told me is so amazing and like deserves to know how you feel about him." I try to sound confident in what I'm saying, but that's still quite hard for me to accomplish.
"What do you know?" Michael spits, harsh enough that I'm taken aback, and my hand leaves his shoulder, "You've denied your feelings since sixth grade."
Biting, icy pain hits my chest for a split second. Michael's pain has caused his words to become callous and cold, so I meet them with warmth and forgiveness, despite my own troubles.
