Micah’s curls are in total disarray in the morning outside the school.
“You feeling better?” I ask.
“A little.”
“And the darkness is…gone?”
“Never fully,” he says. “But I’m here, and I’m trying.” He points to the yellow socks on his calves, dotted with limes.
I smooth his hair down with my fingers, remembering how he kissed my scars last night. How with him, I felt brave and present and free.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome. And may I ask, for what?”
“For being you. It’s because of you. The poetry. Talking to Alice. I never would have done any of this without you.” I reach out to hold his hand. “And you were right. We have to turn in our project. I can’t keep hiding.”
I lean in and kiss his lips, the warmth of them transporting me back to the ocean.
“Aren’t you scared someone will see?” Micah says.
I keep my hand in his as we walk through the front doors. “It’s not brave if you’re not scared.”
My courage wavers slightly as we walk the halls. Sam stares at our hands, at me, then strides quickly away. If I were still making lists in the small hours of the morning, I could make a whole one dedicated to the times when I’ve let Sam down lately. I’ve texted her one gazillion times, trying to apologize for missing her solo, for being a terrible friend.
She hasn’t replied to any of my I’ll-be-better promises.
Kali spies us from her locker and gasps like she’s in a telenovela. She beelines for us in the middle of the hall.
“Is this”—she points back and forth from Micah to me—“a thing?”
I nod.
“It’s perfect,” she says, although in true Kali fashion, it’s unclear if it’s a compliment or an insult. “I wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but here you are.”
“If what was true?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, the Underground. Anyone can do anything to a picture, so I was like, are they together together? Or just project partners together? Although, not sure what kind of project requires that kind of”—she smiles suggestively like we’re all in on a big secret together—“intimacy.”
When Kali realizes we have zero idea what she’s blabbering about, she turns her phone toward us. The Underground fills her screen, with a shot of Micah and me standing on the cliff, holding hands, screaming into the void. The post says, A Poet and an Artist: Crazy in Love, or Just Crazy?
On Micah’s locker, someone has taped a copy of the picture.
“Freaking Damon,” Micah mutters as he rips it down, but it’s too late. Everyone has seen it. Around me, people look at their phones.
At you,
wondering if you are, in fact, crazy?
I start to leave my body.
The tingles in my fingers. The tightness in my gut. My chest. My throat. The overpowering urge to pick myself open.
“Hey.” Micah’s standing in front of me, staring me square in the eyes. “Look at me.”
I do. But I’m slipping away.
“Stay. With me,” he says. He squeezes my hand.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Micah’s eyes take me back to the ocean and the cliff and our words, flying free.
And the bad thoughts clear.
My breathing settles.
I squeeze his hand back.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
And I stay.
Enough
You say
I am beautiful
I am enough
With my flaws
my monsters
my scars
You see them
—all of them—
and stay.
And so do I.
