Heading to my room, I'm startled when I round the corner and notice Xalale standing in the hallway. Apparently, he never went into my room, instead lingering in the hallway.

   "Hey," I say after recovering from the fright. "Didn't notice you here."

    He doesn't say anything in response, so I continue.

   "So I guess it's just me and you now. Anything you wanna do to pass the time?"

   "I don't feel in the best condition to do so." He mutters, already beginning to head into the room.

    I frown, following behind with concern.

   "You know, it was just an accident. Accidents happen all the time. Clifford's going to be fine."

   He pauses, giving me a sideways glance then looking away.

   "That's not the issue."

   "Oh?" I raise an eyebrow in question. "Then what's wrong?"

   "I'm simply not feeling well."

    He's lying. I don't know when I became an expert on separating the truth from the lies with him, but I definitely am not fooled by his act.

   "It's okay to feel guilty, but it was a genuine accident. Now believe me when I say Clifford-"

   The fact that I saw through his lie causes his usual, natural defenses to come up and the aggression begins.

   "You're not listening. That isn't the problem. The problem is I am not feeling in the best condition."

   I respond calmly, patiently.

   "Funny how you're feeling bad after the incident."

   This is agitating him more than a simple disbelief in his true health should conjure. Now, I speak firmly, with a level voice.

   "Why do you have to lie about this? I don't understand. You're concerned about him as most people rightfully would- what's wrong with that?"

    Though he fumes, he doesn't respond.

   "It's okay to admit it you know," I fold my arms giving him an equally leveled look. "As annoying and pestering as he is, he's grown on you, hasn't he? He's a sweet kid, a little obnoxious at times, but still a nice kid."

   I wait for him to respond. He just continues to seethe over this, but eventually some of the anger seeps out of him, though he still doesn't reply, which baffles me. "How can you be so complicated that you can't even admit that you've grown fond of someone? Does he think it makes him look weak somehow?"

  After a minute showdown, he moves around me, heading out of the room.

   "I need to be alone for a bit," He mutters as an excuse.

   Frowning, I want to protest but let him go, not wanting to start another uproar. I've certainly never met anyone in my life who needs so much time alone and time outs. But I just sigh, letting him disappear to wherever he goes when he needs time alone. I decide to wait for him in my room, pulling out a sketchbook to scribble some crappy doodles in.

    "You know," I think to myself. "Cats also like to be alone a lot. There's really no doubt about it, his spirit animal is a cat- it's just too perfect for him." I've never met a person who shares so many characteristics with a cat- it's uncanny.

   This always brings a smile to my face when I need it the most.

   It doesn't take me long to grow weary of sketching, so I go to use my computer, dismayed to find it at such a low battery that it shuts down immediately. Just my luck. So I have to charge it and find something else to occupy my mind with, like actually taking the time to notice how messy my room actually is and do something about it. My part in cleaning my room results in a few pair of socks being tossed into the dirty bin and throwing away trash (I never said I was committed to doing something about it).

   Oddly enough, when I rummaging under my overcrowded bed, I pull out a few memorable items from my younger years: a friendship bracelet that I never shared with anyone, a few fake rings I brought from those prize dispensers in the grocery store, a messy, but cute coloring of my house and family I drew in 3rd grade for Thanksgiving. Sighing nostalgically at these memories, I reach under the bed to pull out another thing, a piece of neatly folded paper. I'm not sure what I wrote on it, but upon unfolding it and nearly straining my eyes to read the fine, cursive script, I know that this wasn't written by me.

   Knowing that the note wasn't written by me, it's easy to jump to the conclusion that it was written by Xalale.

    Some people, when confronted by this issue, would slip the note back wherever they found it without giving it a second thought. The majority of nosy human beings, one being myself, would easily get settled down and begin skimming the contents.

   His handwriting- which I've never seen until this moment- is so fine and elegant that I have quite the difficult task of reading it, but I want to know what he wrote, so I put aside my indifference towards cursive and press on.

   It's simply impossible to avoid it, yet I try at all cost.
   It wakes me from my sleep in a cold sweat,
   It terrifies me.
   Then, it makes some lonely, naive part of me exhilarated.
   And that petrifies me.
   It's seen as so normal yet so foreign, it's viewed as a gift.
   I had it once- or I thought I did.
   There are so many meanings to such a thing that it is, to me, unfathomable.
   I don't long for it yet my body and soul yearns so.
   It will hurt more the tighter I let this serpent coil itself around me.
   But it is a cunning serpent for it knows that you wish to remain entangled.
   How foolish of me to even taunt such a cruel beast, but I did,
   Now ever so slightly it grows more restrictive with every day.
   My fears are heightened, still,
   I feel freed with every breath lost.
   Yet I hang onto my fears- rightfully so, I suppose- and panic the more breathless I become.
   It's a useless notion to me, but I can scarcely convince myself of that.
   It is a delirious idea that my soul excites in.
   I had everything, I was in charge of my fate, my destiny,
   But it lasted not even a season before the reality set in.
   Now, I thought I had control, everything.
   But now I realize I've built a masquerade which deceives me daily,
   It showed its cracks in the very moment I knew it did but put it out of thought.
   So confused and disoriented am I;
   I've lost my direction.
   Whether false or true, man needs direction in life or else his purpose is for naught.
   I've been blind this whole time, telling myself I see light,
   Now I search in the darkness I've put myself in without hope of finding the light.
   You lose hope very rapidly in those times, I learned.
   I've learned much being in the dark.
   I've learned I've missed the light.
   You've been searching in the dark for so long that the moment that first brush is felt, you pull away in confusion.
   It's once the feeling has faded you believe it was just a dream, a memory.
   Only when they brush against you again and this time cling to you.
   The darkness creates more fear than the light does;
   So blind you are that you fight with that hand which holds firm.
   But the hand that guides never let's go, even when they could- when they should.
   You grow more familiar with the hand that guides.
   You'll stumble but never fall.
   Until you finally see the light, you keep holding on,
   Then when we might emerge, you'll see the one that's been guiding you all along.

   By the time I finish reading it, I have to read it a second time. I'm no fan of poetry, but this was a very intriguing piece, especially seeing who it was written by. There were some parts he lost me at- whether because of my lack of understanding or not thoroughly explained. But overall, I found it very moving and suddenly begin to feel that ping of guilt at reading something so personal and private to him.

   Folding it neatly back the way it was, I place it back where I found it and try not to seem suspicious in case he comes back in.

    I fiddle around in my sketchbook some more, but my thoughts remain on the words he wrote. The worst part is, I want to bring it up with him and discuss it, but that would mean revealing that I read it.

    "How convincing would it be if I said it fell open in my lap?" Not likely I guess.

   I daydream a bit about things. Mostly about that poem. I try to think of when he could have written it. There were a few opportunities he could have done so when I was not in the room or even at home.

   As these daydreams float through my mind, they pop the moment Xalale comes in. I sit up, greeting him with a smile- trying not to show my guilt- but my smile drops the moment I take in the way his jaw is clenched, the white ash of his tight, shaking fist, and the mixture of urgency and spite in his eyes.

   "What's wrong?"

    He begins pacing, fuming over something. I haven't seen him so worked up in ages, it felt like. I stop him with a gentle touch on his shoulder, looking at him with curious, concerned eyes.

   "Xalale, what's wrong?"

   He looks me dead on in my eyes and speaks with a voice that sounds tried and strained.

   "She's here."

    "Pronoun game much."

   "She who?" My brows knit together in confusion.

   "My mother."