Unedited.

This chapter is in two parts again because I haven't updated in two weeks and I had to update something. Seriously, I've been updating terrible and I'm going to start doing it regularly again.

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               "Frozen yoghurt?" I echo incredulously, raising an eyebrow at the shop standing in front of us. FROYO GOYO stares back at me, a large flashing sign, too bright for my liking. "Nice name," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

               It's the last place I'd been expecting James to lead me, but I can't say I want to complain. Frozen yoghurt is one of my favourite foods, aside from pizza and chocolate. I don't know how good it will be inside but if they have mango I'm sold. Before the cancer diagnosis I'd hated mango; after it had become a craving. I've never asked my doctor about it because he'd just look at me oddly, but I've always wondered why.

               A hand nudges my shoulder and I look up at James sharply. He stares at me, raising an eyebrow. A blush spreads across my cheeks and I smile ruefully. Shrugging helplessly, I mouth, forgot. Sorry.

               James just waves his hand in response. It's okay, leave it alone, I interpret the gesture as. Despite it, I can't help but feel guilty. I'm the last person who wants to offend him for any reason, especially not because of a blatant disregard.

               James stares at me a minute longer, before pointing at the sign flashing in the front of the shop. Coming in? he mouths. Nodding wordlessly, I follow him inside, ducking under his arm as it holds the glass doors open. Flashing him a grateful smile, I scan the interior of FROYO GOYO.

               To the right of the shop, there's a large counter, girls in bright green shirts smiling and serving customer. I don't let my eyes linger for too long, avoiding the flavours all together. I'll find them out later anyway.

               The window at the back of the shop faces the street and people walk by, looking through the glass, inside the shop. The left of the store is completely different, steps leading up to a raised area, carpeted with fake grass. Tables are places randomly around the room, couples sitting, talking with a bowl of frozen yoghurt in front of them. The grass area runs along the whole wall, a deep, long recess, long enough for a person to lay down in. Pillows are scattered randomly along the grass.

               My converse are soundless against the wooden floor, but James's footsteps echo. Eyes stare at us . . . well, most girls stare at James. Then their eyes land on me and jealously flickers. I can't help but smile a little. If only they knew the truth, then they'd be all over James. Until they found out he can't talk. Then they'd take their uptight selves and ignore him because of it.

               Just like they're doing to me now. One by one, their eyes land on the oxygen machine, I'm rolling behind me, and then they look away hastily. As if they're uncomfortable at the sight of it. When they look at James again, it's in an all new light. Their eyes are full of pity, as if they feel sorry for him. I can almost hear what they're thinking.

               What's he doing with her?

               What's wrong with her?

               Choosing to ignore them, I turn to James instead, smiling at him. He's not even looking at me, too busy glaring at everyone else in the store. Before a conflict can start—not that it will—, I pull him towards the counter. He doesn't fight it, letting me lead him, though his shoulders are tense and his jaw is clenched.

               When we make it to the counter, the girl working greets us with a smile. The oxygen machine is blocked by the counter and I'm grateful for it. "Hi, what can I get you two?"

               Scanning the menu board above her head, I consider the options. Out of the corner of my eye, I see James do the same. Mango, strawberry, vanilla or passionfruit. The decision isn't a hard one. "Mango please."

               She taps the register in front of her. "Size?"

               "Small," I tell her, staring at the cup, half the size of my hand. Well aware that James can't order anything verbally, I raise an eyebrow. I can see the girl staring at us curiously, openly watching the exchange. Neither of us pay her any attention though.

               I catch his lips move and I force myself to pay attention. Vanilla. Small, he mouths. Rolling my eyes at his utter boringness, I say, "And a small vanilla."

               She rings the cost up and before I can reach for the money in my wallet, James is there, swiping his card through the machine. He ignores my glare, winking at me. 

               With a resigned sigh, I let him pay, resolved to buy him something later.

               Idly standing by the counter makes me feel incredibly awkward, the eyes of everyone in the store on us. It could be me overreacting but, regardless, it feels like there's thousands of eyes on me, singling me out from the crowd.

               When we're finally called over and given our yoghurt, I breathe a sigh of relief. Following behind James, freezing cold yoghurt in one hand, the handle of my oxygen machine in the other, I stare straight ahead, pretending the eyes don't bother me.

               Too busy ignoring everyone, I almost fall over the stops of the raised area. James manages to catch me before I can face plant into the grass. His arms wraps around me waist, pulling me upright and practically up the stairs. "Thanks," I breathe out, my faulty lung catching up to me. James realises my struggle and in no time we're seated in the recessed area, sitting back against the wall. In the cramped space, our shoulders touch.

               James takes something from out of the bags, as I'm rearranging my oxygen machine so it's not in the way. When his hand starts to move rapidly, I realise it's the notepad.

               So, what do you want to talk about?

               Taking the pen from him, I dip my spoon into the yoghurt. The maltesers scattered over the mango are a surprise but I can't complain. It tastes heavenly; enough to make me forget about the curios and judgemental eyes. For starters, how mad I am that you didn't let me pay.

               James takes a bite of his own yoghurt, rolling his eyes. I asked you to come with me. I'm paying. Simple as that.

               Raising an eyebrow, I glare, though I'm distracted by the yoghurt momentarily. Simple as that? Not really. I'm buying the next thing we eat.

               His reaction isn't far from what I expect—he jaw tightens and he sits taller. Male pride seems to take over.

               Before he can write anything, I flick to a new page. Don't bother with the 'I'm the man' crap, James. It's not a good look.

               As he reads the words, I see surprise flicker across his face, his eyebrows shooting up. Then he stares at me, almost in disbelief, before his hand moves over paper. Well, I wasn't expecting that. You're full of surprises, you know that?

               I can't help but laugh, a loud sound. In the process, I manage to choke on a scoop of yoghurt. Coughing loudly, I gain my bearings again. Flattery will get you nowhere. Seriously, I don't care if you invited me, you're not paying for my food. I'll shout lunch.

               Lunch has been and gone. Determined, I only stare at James, until he relents. Fine. You pay.

               Rearranging a pillow so it's against the wall, I lean further back. Thanks, I write, flashing a smile at him.

               He only smiles back.

               Awkward silence settles over us and it try to find a way to break it. But I don't know how. What are you supposed to say? I have nothing to go off. Guys ignore me like I'm the plague—or, more aptly, the cancer.

               Sick of the awkwardness, I flip to a fresh page. Talk about something. I feel like a fish out of water.

               His eyes flicker to mine and I see something shining there, though I can't place it. Anger maybe. Surprise? I glance away, wringing my hands nervously. He's regretting it, I know.

               Stop looking at me like that.

               My eyes widen at the words and I can do nothing but stare at James in shock. "What?" I say before I can stop myself.

               James' hand reaches out, gesturing to his throat. Then he waves at my oxygen machine, raising an eyebrow. I know what you're thinking and stop. Clearly, I'm not someone to be jealous of. Nothing you can do will bother me. You put up with constant silence; for that I owe you big time.  

               This isn't awkward to you? I wrote, trying to ignore the resentment fighting to erupt. Anything different, anything below perfection is either ignored or treated like trash. Cancer, being deaf, blind or mute alienates you from normal, much like any other disability does. I have to wonder how bad it is for James. Cancer gives you leeway, everyone too afraid to say anything to your face, in case it suddenly strikes like lightning and you die on the spot. That's a novelty I don't think James has.

               James shakes his head, dipping his spoon into some of my yoghurt. I don't feel awkward and I'm sorry if you do. Right now, I hear nothing. Just a whole lot of silence. Frowning, he bites the yoghurt off of his spoon, eyes never leaving mine. This is good.

               Living in complete and utter silence is something I can't even begin to comprehend. Each night, falling asleep and losing one sense is hard enough. Waking up in the morning, knowing that I'll see the next day makes it easier. James doesn't get that option. Each day, he wakes up knowing he still won't hear. Each day, I wake up, the cancer still spreading. Can they compare? I don't know.

               I don't dwell on it either. The last thing I want is for this day to turn into a depressing one.

               Shaking my head, I smirk at him, pushing stray hair out of my face. Flipping to a new page, I write. If it's good, then why'd you get vanilla? Must you be such a bore?

                James reads the words, rolling his eyes and laughing soundlessly. I'm sorry. As if mango is any more exciting.

               Mango is more exciting—you just don't want to admit it. Taking another bite of my yoghurt, I flip to a new page. James watches on, a fist resting his knee. Teach me some more sign.

Together we eat until we're both done eating. It takes almost half an hour but it's the most comfortable half an hour of my life, even with the silence. There's no phones, no distractions. Just us.

As we leave the store, he goes over the sign he's taught me. Already, I know more of it than other language I've learnt in my life.

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Thanks for reading!

~ Littlemissflawed