You Have My Attention

Twenty-Three

« Kason's POV »

She smiles at me and sets the fluffy pancakes and orange juice on the table. It's a tired smile, and even though my stomach growls in appreciation, the feeling of sickness overpowers.

How do I ease into this? She's exhausted because of me. She probably hates my guts. For some reason, I want her help. Not just because of her navigation skills, but because I trust her. I haven't trusted anyone in a long time. Not like this.

I mumble a thank you and bite into the food she'd prepared. She smiles tiredly and welcomes me before sitting across and laying her head on the table. Her eyes fall half-closed out of the need for sleep.

"I...Look, Clumsy, I'm sorry," I struggle out, trying to find the right place to start. "You didn't have to take care of me like that."

She sits up and shrugs, leaning back into the chair. A moment recalls on me from literally not long ago. A sense of deja vú washes over me. In this same setup at the table, she'd given up on trying to understand me. She'd told me, "Whatever." She'd been trying to get it: why I'm such an asshole. She felt sorry for me, tried to help, and I pushed her out.

Yet here she is, trying to care for me again anyway.

"You don't have to be sorry," she says, surprising me. I look at her intensely. "I have no idea what you're going through. I can't judge. The least I can do is let you sleep in my apartment...not that it was much of a place to sleep in." She burns red and looks down into her lap out of shame of her hospitality. I smile slightly. I didn't expect a mansion. She gave me enough by letting me hold her small—

I clear my throat and knit my brows together, shaking my head. Stop. That's not how you feel. You don't like her like that.

Keep convincing yourself that.

I sigh and ignore that constant pressing voice in my head. "I showed up drunk, Clumsy. And I had a loaded gun in my hand. I laid out my problems on you all at once. You don't deserve my stupid depression problems," I admit.

Her gorgeous eyes soften. "It's not stupid. If someone is hurting so bad inside that they want to take their own life, that's not stupid. It's a call for help."

Silence lays its blanket over us both. It's not awkward. We're both just thinking. I'm staring at her, thinking she's crazy. I'm no oblivious moron — yes, a moron regardless — but not an ignorant one. She's suggesting she wants to help me, even after everything I put her through. Why? How can a human be so forgiving and genuine and generous? How?

As for her thoughts, I'm unsure of. But her eyes give away that whatever she's contemplating, it's...sad. She's sad for my sadness. It's not pity. She of all people would understand why I resent pity. It's not sympathy either. But more — empathy.

My heart hitches in my chest. Our problems aren't the same, but we've both gone through our own version of hell. I'm so insensitive. I didn't stop to think if she could feel the same. Of course she'd understand depression. If I weren't so selfish, I could've been helping her with it this whole time.

Obviously I knew she was depressed, just not how deeply. I've never stopped to ask if she's okay, I realize. I never asked. And the entire time she's been here, that's all she's been doing for me: asking if I'm okay. And then I've had the audacity to not even answer, or I dodged it.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly again.

She shakes her head with a small laugh. "Stop saying that. You can't apologize for feeling—"

"No, I mean I'm sorry I didn't ask about you," I restate. "You're dying a little on the inside everyday. I can see it."

There's no hiding the look of shock on her face. I can't tell if it's from her shaken to realize I'd finally recognized it, or if it's because she is only figuring out her emotions now. Either way, she wasn't expecting me to blurt out the truth so bluntly.