He's gone to bed now. I wrote.
He's going to come back though, I just know it. He's going to come down and tell me that he knows, someone told him. Or maybe he just figured it out. He knows I lied... But if that's true, why is he being so nice to me? I should have told him a long time ago... I hate myself for doing this. Why can't I just say it? "Michael, I didn't come to your COLLEGE GRADUATION because I almost died. And I didn't tell you because I was afraid you would leave school to come to me— and I didn't want you to fail. Oh, and you know what else? I didn't tell you that I lied to you because I was afraid you would hate me for lying to you and go away."
It's so stupid of me to think that he would do that. Michael wouldn't.
Would he?
God, I should just tell him. I really should.
This couch is so comfortable, I just wish I could sleep. Being here again is so strange, it feels like home, but then —it doesn't. I feel like I should cry but also like I should laugh until it kills me, and I can't do either one. What is wrong with me?
Maybe—"Marie?" Wow. That was so much sooner than I expected. His voice echoed from the staircase across the tile. "Marie, I—"
"It's okay." I interrupted, dreading what was to come, but happy to hear him again, my voice wouldn't raise more than a whisper. "I knew you'd be back."
"Can I sit here?" Again. Duh for an answer.
"Of course." I put my hair up again, not sure when I took it down this time.
He sat there for a minute, brows furrowed. The thoughts that had troubled him at intervals all evening were coming to head — and it hurt me to see it on his face. I had to wait, maybe I was wrong, maybe he wanted to talk about something else. Maybe... I didn't know, I wished I could cry, or find some other way to relieve the tightness in my stomach and throat. But it wouldn't go away, and it worsened each time I looked at him.
"Marie," he finally began. "I know..." I looked at him and his eyes caught mine. It stung, more than I can explain - those eyes, so soft, glazed with sleeplessness, so hurt... "I know why you couldn't be at my graduation, why you stopped writing."
"I know you do." Stubbourn wretch, I held to my lie. "I told you."
"Marie," he sighed. "You didn't... You lied to me. " Oh no... It's coming. "Why c—"
"Because, Michael." Desparation cleared my throat. "I thought it was just a cold at first. And then... Well, I didn't want to hurt you. It was your last week of exams when I was admitted to the hospital— And you can't tell me you would have scored what you did if you were worried about me. You needed to sleep well, and to study without distraction." He started to speak, but I couldn't stop myself. "I told them not to tell you because I wanted to tell you myself, I meant to after your graduation, but—"
"But you couldn't even speak..." he whispered. "You couldn't walk, you could hardly breathe on your own. You were in a fever induced—" he paused, searching for a word. "Sleep. For days, Marie." I couldn't look at him anymore. But I heard him breathe deeply. "... And I didn't even know."
He was right, I could have died, I would never have had another chance to miss telling him how much I really did care about him. Wasn't that more important than a test score? Was that what he was trying to tell me? Of course it was. What a fool I had been, what a child, so unworthy of the pain he had gone through for me.
"I don't know what to say." I whispered hoarsely.
"Oh, Marie." he looked at me and I turned away from him. "I'm sorry..." He said. "Please don't cry."
But I was already. Hot tears burned my flushed cheeks. Michael's plea suddenly brought to mind the time Ben had explained to me that it was the worst thing for a boy to see a girl cry and know it was his fault. So I screwed myself up to hold it in and stopped crying.
"Okay," I heard myself say as I wiped my face with my sleeves. "Okay, Michael, I won't."
It was his turn to look away. I'm sure in horror, because I'm quite awful looking when I cry. But I wanted to make him smile —so I gave him the only comforting thought I had.
"Michael?" I whispered, my own soundless voice and the thought itself made me smile.
"Hm?"
"I'm here."
"Yes." He smiled slowly. A clock chimed somewhere in the house.
"You should get some sleep." I said, taking the last cold sip of my tea.
"Yes." he said again. "I should." He took a deep breath. "You should consider a little shut-eye yourself... Miss Marie."
"All right." I rolled my eyes at him, in imitation of my twelve-year-old sister. Somehow, everything was better, perhaps it was the talking that needed to be done. "Goodnight... Michael."
"Goodnight." he disappeared with a soft padding up the stairs again. I listened until I heard his door close, and then turned off the lamp.
