Our conversations through the door continued for quite a while.

At eleven p.m. every night, his feet would trample against the ground in the hallway, almost as if he knew I'd be listening to every sound indicating his arrival, just to find something else about him to adore. Soon enough, though, his sneakers stopped squeaking against the floor, and his clumsy footsteps quietened.

 He'd crouch against the door, usually with a soft grunt. After a while, that fizzled away, too.

"How was your day?" he always asked first, as if I actually left the house or something. I hadn't since that night, which didn't bother me; during the past two weeks, I'd had enough food stored in bags and the freezer to last an entire winter. I'd even forgotten what the hallway looked like; whether the floors were wooden or linoleum, whether the light in front of the apartment three doors away from mine had been fixed or not.

 I guess love – and maybe even life – is like that too? Once you're weaned off of it, you forget what it feels like to have someone's heart in your hands, or to breathe without the emptiness inside weighing down on every part of our body. The memories only surge back once the nothingness has been filled with everything beautiful, and your hands somehow manage to not crush the only thing keeping your love alive.

 "What do the floors look like?" I asked softly. He chuckled, all too ready to answer my question as his back moved away from the door, a slight creaking sound brushing against my ears.

"Linoleum," he answered, "chequered, dark brown and light brown. You could easily play hopscotch on it."

 "I used to." I replied. "When I first moved in."

  His body returned to the door, his head banging slightly against the smooth wood.

"Sometimes, I'd play alone." I went on, smiling at the memory. "Other times, the kids a few doors down would join me. They stopped when their parents found out that they enjoyed playing hopscotch with a twenty-three year old man. They started again when their parents found out I was gay."

  Another beautiful, harmonious chuckle left his mouth, bringing out another laugh from me. I liked this; feeding off of his happiness, being so utterly dependent on his emotions that my bones would break to see him smile.

And maybe that's my problem. Maybe, I'm so hell-bent on keeping him happy and overjoyed and safe and okay, just so I won't have to feel the writhing pain that thrashes against my ribcage whenever I rip my soul apart to fill up the spaces in his.

 Maybe he isn't the problem. Maybe, what I'm all too willing to do for him is.

xxx

dedicated to taylor because nobody's on her level (be honest, guys).

 - jay.