It proves surprisingly difficult to pick things from the shelves of Barua's Market with my left hand. I fumble much more than I should. But I've got enough experience to know not to carry anything heavy after a bite; it'll push all the blood out.

I check the short shopping list Iya texted me for the next item only to nearly drop my phone when Miles speaks right beside me. 'Are you okay?'

My heart skips, then compresses. Don't sneak up on me like that, is what I almost say, but it's far more words than he deserves from me right now. Instead, I chuck a bag of long-grained white rice into the basket without looking up. 'Why?'

'You... ran out of maths...'

'There was a wasp.'

Deciding to ignore his presence, I continue down the aisle without stepping around him and he has to stumble back to avoid collision. But at the mouth, he roots his New Balances to the floor to block the exit.

'No, there weren't.' He attempts a matter-of-fact tone but the contempt of catching me in an obvious lie seeps into his voice.

With my fingernails dug into my palm, I lift my gaze up to him. His forehead is glossy with sweat, cheeks still flushed, and his hoodie is tied around his hips which leaves the strap of his bag to chafe against his neck. The tawny skin there is already reddening.

I take his contempt and evolve it into unfiltered hostility. 'How was football?'

Miles drops his eyes to the floor. 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?' Despite the lack of reciprocity, I continue to glare. 'I know I'm poor but I think I can survive without the tenner.'

I suck my teeth and wake up my cell to check the list. Wedging past Miles, I shake my head at myself. What am I angry for? This isn't worth being angry about. I don't care enough to be angry. 

'It's your grade. It's got nothin to do with me. I didn't wanna do this in the first place.'

But he follows me to the next aisle where I fetch a carton of almond milk. In misplaced frustration, I knock the bite against the shelf bracket and wince.

A bitten curse has barely seethed through my teeth before he's right at my side. 'Are you okay?'

'Yes.' As subtly as possible, I look down. Blood is seeping into the white sleeve of my uniform. God's sake. I capture his gaze again to stop him from noticing it too. 'And even if I wasn't, it's honestly none of your business. You can quit actin like you care.'

Contrary to expectation, Miles doesn't look away. His black eyes pour unabashedly into my equally dark ones. 'I do care.'

The needle holes in my skin from my callow thread have scabbed. Like a child, I can't resist the urge to pick at them.

It doesn't matter how many times I tell myself that I don't want anything between us and that in either case, I'm better out of it... I've already threaded a new needle. Because even when I know he doesn't, I want him to care. I want to rip up my sleeve and show him and for him to care enough not to leave. I want him to care enough to tell Tristan and Lysander to piss off. I want him to care enough for me to surpass social rank in his priorities.

But he doesn't.

Nonetheless, I want to sew us together with a thousand stitches, if only to have the opportunity to rip the string out myself this time and leave us equally bloody, a sadistic need to hurt him as he hurts me. It slithers in my stomach.

I think I'm a bad person.

The fatigue from my episode does the opposite of increasing my restraint. Every moment that passes wanes my defences. What if I just tell him the truth? And then everything else too? What's the worst that could happen?

I snap my head to the side to break eye contact. My gaze finds the clock next to the box television instead. It's past six, I'm already an hour late for Asr. 'I've got to go pray.' I need to charm the snakes in my gut.

Without waiting for a response, I beeline for the door only to freeze three steps in when he calls after me. 'Aren't you gonna pay?'

Cheeks burning, I turn back to Miles watching me with raised eyebrows, then look at the shopping basket. Right... I'm still at Barua's.

Doing my best impression of nonchalance, I shuffle over to the till where I place my basket as if it's made of glass rather than steel.

Mr Barua takes his time to peer at me through narrowed eyes as he adds up the price and my brisk escape is ruined. Miles's gaze tickles the back of my neck without interruption.

I all but run out the moment Mr Barua hands me the receipt, calling my thanks over my shoulder, bag of rice and a courgette under my arm. Only across the street do I slow down enough to slip them into the bag.

The crimson blot is growing on my shirt sleeve. I'll have to slip upstairs without Iya catching me. Odd that it doesn't hurt.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's like the medication: gets less intense with use.

My distractibility costs me. The door of Barua's croons behind me and the rhythmic click of the zipper pull-tabs on his bag proves it's Miles. I pick up my pace and pray that he'll turn somewhere else, but obviously he doesn't: we're neighbours. How many times will it take for me to learn that?

Maybe if I pretend to be ignorant of his presence, it won't be awkward.

By the time I reach East Trough Primary, this proves ineffective. My heart is erratic and my eyes prickle with the burn of tears that never come.

Why do I care so much? Of all people on Earth, why do I have to care about Kilometres? There's something severely wrong with me. I'm sick with something. At what point did I catch it?

When I'm a metre from the bend to Cleavers Grove, Miles interrupts and I freeze.

'You confuse me.'

His voice is so blasé, it's as if he's just stated that the weather is cloudy, yet my breathing dies out with the wind around us. For a stretched second, everything is still. "You confuse me."

As if bursting aflame, my skin turns hot at the flick of a switch. I whirl around to face him where he stands two metres away. 'What?'

He shrugs, upholding the mannerisms of an entirely casual conversation. 'How can you be the most honest person I know and the most dishonest one at the same time?'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You know.' It's a statement: you know. 'You're so vulnerable one minute, then you lie right through your teeth the next. It's confusing.'

My cheeks burn at such ferocity that it brings tears to my eyes. Fingernails threaten to break through my palms with the tightness of my fists. And at the same time, my insides droop and my chest aches as if my ribs are littered with cavities and are rotting away like a neglected bridge over a stormy river.

'Why would I tell you anythin? Just so you can tell Tristan and Lysander and you can all bond over making fun of me?'

He licks his lip and swallows. 'I wouldn't do that.'

'I'm supposed to take your word for it, am I?' My voice has much less bite than I intended.

Horror strikes when I realise my lip is quivering and my eyes water, cheeks soaked. I dry them with my sleeve. Stupid pathetic idiot.

If he wasn't embarrassed by me before, he definitely is now. But once I have my crying under control and look at him, he's fixated, not on my tears, but on my sleeve. Dammit. I cram my hand into my pocket even if the effort is futile.

Miles lifts his gaze slowly up to meet my eyes. We have twenty arguments in the silence of two seconds.

He steps forward. One step. But the metre and three-quarters that divide us might as well be half an inch: his voice is clearly audible even when he whispers. 'It's not that simple.'

'Explain it to me then. The floor is yours.' I gesture to the sidewalk between us but he doesn't comply. My throat has decided to strangle me; it tightens around my windpipe until my entire neck aches but I force a scoff. 'It's not that complicated. It makes life easy for you.'

'My mum will never forgive me. I'm s'posed to be on her side.'

'What?'

He doesn't respond.

This is ridiculous. Neither of us cares, anyway. We're not mates. It's just tutoring, and in a month and a half, we'll never have to interact again. Except, of course, as much as any neighbours are forced to.

When I turn around to stalk down Cleavers Grove, once again fighting tears, clicking doesn't follow. I battle every cell in my body not to look back. Is he waiting for me to get inside first? Why? Why is he torturing me so much? Why does it matter? I don't care.

I'm all emotionally messed up from my episode earlier — the desire to cry, pass out, and simultaneously to break something has nothing to do with Miles. Miles is just my nuisance neighbour who I feel nothing but mild vexation toward, and after tutoring ends next week, I'll never think about him again.

Notes

Asr: Evening prayer