"I'm going to the bathroom," I tell Thomas after about an hour of attempting not to get distracted while studying.

"Okay."

I lock the door behind me. It's an automatic thing I do, even though no one will randomly burst through this door. There are no siblings here. Not even Thomas's parents, because they're at my house, drinking wine with my parents, probably. And Thomas won't just appear while I'm sitting on the toilet.

What also goes automatically is my eyes focusing on the drawers. He definitely does not have makeup or skincare in there.

The edge of a white paper sticks out of the third drawer. I can't help myself; I've crouched down in front of the drawer and have slipped the paper out before I know it.

I can't do this. This is a violation of privacy. I am a horrible person— okay.

I will just have a look at what this says and I'll leave the rest alone. That's a good deal.

Hello,
My name is Thomas and I am seven years old.

My eyes meet an almost unreadable handwriting. Thomas's handwriting is already bad, but it was the worst here. And the bad grammar also makes it hard to read.

Today mommy brought me to the pschichologyst,

I think he means psychologist.

because mommy thinks I have ADHD. I don't know what that is but I don't think it's good because the pschichologyst was more serious towards me than most people are.

Never mind. His grammar wasn't even that bad. It's so well written that it makes me want to cry, and I haven't even read a quarter of it.

She said she wanted me to try someting before I would be dyagnost. I have to write every day to get bad thoughts away. Like an apple a day keeps the doktor away. So that is what I am doing right now.

She told me to write to my faforite person and to write like I am writing them a letter or email. I thought of math at first because I really like that subjekt but that is not a person so I chose Sage because Sage is my best friend and sage is my favrit color beside bleu.

What if I walk out of the bathroom crying? What will he think of that? Because I'm really close to letting some tears fall.

I remember how long it took for him to learn that blue was spelled 'blue' and not 'bleu'. And he was often confused about the difference between the 'c' and 'k' and the 'f' and 'v'.

I do not think I will give this to Sage because the pschichologyst told me to keep the letters safe. I cannot destroi them because then the toughts will plop back into my head like a littel poop falling into the toylett.

She said I need to write my thoughts down so here they are:

Why is the sky bleu? I know it is my favrit color but still.

I wonder how I put jelly instead of cheese on my sandwich today. It was an aksident and it was bleh. Sandwich and jelly don't make a good team to me.

I thought about putting glofes on my feet and soks on my hands and then I aktualy did it and mommy said I looked sily.

I saw a spider today and I asked it if it was scared of other bugs like we are. Especiely you, Sage. Spidey did not reply but I think she meant to say that she has dreams about giant ants chacing her.

I also had a dream that all my toys came to life and had a partie in my room. Teddy was the DJ and my toy cars were raicing around my bet. I woke up and then there was no partie. I'm kind of sad about that.

And Gally at school said that plants talk if you lissen close enuf so I held my ear next to a kaktus and then it really hurt. I think it was yeling.

Now I am going to make a paarasute out of a plastik beg. I hope it can make me fly.

Bye Sage,
Stephen

Nostalgia nostalgia nostalgia.

I want to read every other thing that is inside of there right freaking now.

But I can't. I said I'd only read one and I'm keeping that promise. It's already bad that I went through one.

I take a look around. The floor of the bathroom is cold against my skin. How long have I been in here? Probably too long.

One more. Just one. After that, I will literally punish myself by not sewing or eating sweets for a week because this is a horrible thing to do.

I open the drawer without a single sound, and thousands of papers greet me. I'm not even kidding— there's so many.

I don't want to read any recent ones. I think that's the worst thing I can do right now. So I dig a little deeper.

Hey Sage,
This is Thomas again, fifteen years old.

I don't know if this is a good idea. Thomas and I were distant from each other at this age. All the hormones did not want us to be together that much.

But I keep reading. I can't help it.

This whole ass thing the psychologist told me to do does really work. I mean, I've been doing it for nine years already. Kind of crazy.

And I'm still the person he writes to.

Maybe not anymore, but at least until sixteen.

It's been a while since we talked. I think that is good because you will start laughing really hard at all my voice cracks and you'd get tired of how much I eat.

I've been going to the gym and haven't seen a single freaking result after a month so now I'm pissed because I look like a stick and the rest of the boys in my class don't and girls don't like sticks.

Talking about girls, why do they suddenly look so different? It's gotten way weirder talking to girls. It's not as normal as in the past. I've been really noticing them, you know? I found out you're actually kind of cute and that was weird to think about.

Oh I also saw your chest is growing and I am very sorry for looking there. That's all I've got to say about it. May I now forget about it forever.

Driving lessons with Dad are a whole other nightmare. He's yelling in the backseat like a dictator every two seconds and it's not helping. At all. I will drive us into a cliff just because I'm getting so sick of his yells.

People are talking to me about college and I'm like, woah, can I finish high school first, please? Thanks.

That's kind of all I have to say.
Bye Sage,
Thomas

Okay, maybe I do not know him as well as I thought.

No. That's incorrect. I do know him very well. Just not the fifteen- and sixteen-year-old Thomas. And I don't know all the things that have happened to him— I know him in a way that makes me able to tell what he's feeling by reading a simple face expression. Sort of.

I put everything back the way I found it, finish my quick— oh, wow. Guess what decided to show up today. Favorite time of the month.

Wait. I'm actually happy about it. Now I have an excuse on why it took me so long.

I think he can sense that, because a second later, there's a small knock on the door, "Are you... alright?"

"I leaked through. Can you check your mom's room? I don't think you have any pads for me."

I'm not ashamed to tell him this. Not only has he been my best friend for a crazy amount of time, but he is also an eighteen-year-old boy who should be able to react to periods in a normal way. And if he doesn't, I feel bad for what Teresa might've gone through.

But this is Thomas, so of course I don't have to feel bad for her. Thomas is kind as hell.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sure I've got a pair of pants. Or do you need me to get some at yours?"

"No. Your sweatpants are fine."

That's actually two birds in one stone as well. Wearing his clothes and not having to walk around in my undergarments.

"I have pads in the second drawer," he announces from outside the door. "Can you reach them?"

"I'll manage."

"Second drawer," he repeats, focusing a little too much on 'second'.

He's basically saying he does not want me to come near the third one.

Well, I mean, I no longer will.

It's quite the struggle to make my way to the drawer with my pants half down my legs and everything, but I do it. Then I nearly faint from surprise.

"Thomas." I try not to sound like I'm internally screaming. "What the hell is this?"

"What?"

"The second drawer."

"That's stuff. For you to use. Or any guest at all. Well— you know, used to be for Teresa, but she's not here so I think it's now mostly yours since you're the only girl that ever comes in my bathroom. I don't have a lot of girls over— okay, whatever. You get the point."

Through his stammers, I started smiling as I looked for the pads.

Because there is a lot in here. If Teresa taught him this, then I'm really proud of her. And him.

There's two boxes with tampons. Small and big ones. Same thing for the pads. He's got q-tips and cotton pads and some kind of micellar water. A comb and a hairbrush. I think the thing in the left corner is a clay mask. The pot is almost empty and the logo has faded, so I'm not sure. I see hair ties, too. Of different sizes.

"Are you telling me that you've had this drawer all the time, and you did not bother to tell me, and let me walk home every time to get ready?"

"Uhm." He laughs nervously. "Well, you had to get your outfit most of the time anyway."

I palm my face.

"Sorry!" He then says. "I forgot I had that."

"Alright. So is there anything in the third drawer that I need to be aware of? Actually, what is in there?"

I'm just wondering what he will reply.

Sorry, Thomas.

"Ehh," he starts. Then there's a long silence.

"Well?"

"...toys," he ends up saying, not confident at all.

"Toys," I repeat. I have to hold back a laugh. "What kind of toys?"

"Uhmmm," more hesitation as he draws the word out.

"Kids' toys? Old ones?" I ask.

As if he just realized it (he actually did), he replies, "Oh, yes! Kids' toys. Old ones."

Imagine I didn't know about the letters. Then this would've sounded like an excuse as well, but in another way.

Then I would really think there's toys in there, but probably not... kids' toys. And then I would never touch that drawer, so I guess his wish comes true.

But he could've been smoother. I'm happy I don't actually believe there's toys. That would've left me traumatized. I mean, he may do whatever he wants, but I wouldn't be able to look at him in the same way.

Five minutes later, I step out of the bathroom, in his gigantic boxers that I have covered with his sweatpants. Both of them constantly slide down so I'm gonna have to get some clothes at home soon.

"You can, um, pull the strings," Thomas says.

"Huh?"

Favrit word.

See what I did there?

Sorry, seven-year-old Thomas.

"Of the sweatpants," he murmurs, the last letters of his sentence barely audible because he's now too busy focusing on pulling the strings until the sweatpants fit around my waist.

I didn't know tightening some sweatpants could be so intense.

Like, he's very close and suddenly quite tall. He's working slowly on the strings, the veins on his hands tense.

"Is that good?" He asks quietly.

I nod. "Mhm." It comes out as a high-pitched hum. A shameful thing that sends redness over my face. There's no need to be nervous when he's so close. "Thank you."

"No problem." He steps away from me.

And whoosh, the hot air has replaced with the normal, chilly air. His body's warmth is still insane.

"I didn't know you kept your kids' toys," I whisper. It is not as magical as last Wednesday when we were also whispering, because this subject is funny, but it still does something to me.

"I have a thing for them," he lies, whispering as well.

I look up at him. He looks past me. He always does that. I'm afraid I have a gigantic forehead or something. Maybe I'm very ugly from his angle.

"Can I see them?" I whisper. Or rather, tease. But he doesn't have to know that. "There's memories hidden in them."

Yeah, now he's lost.

I live for this.

"Uhm. They're... they might not be... kids' toys after all," he mutters. What a liar.

"No?" I furrow my eyebrows as deeply as I can.

"No," he says.

Thomas likes to believe I'm very innocent.

Thomas thinks I believe I only spent twenty-six dollars at the arcade.

I can't do math, but I am able to count.

And I did not count.

But that doesn't mean I don't know that I tried more than eight times.

I don't know how many times I did try, but it was more.

But hey, I gave him the chance to tell me to pay, and he didn't take it. It's not my fault if he's broke now.

"What kind of toys are they, then?"

It's impossible to not know with a little brother who makes the craziest jokes. And I had biology. And I am eighteen years old. I'm not that dumb.

"Uhm."

He thinks I am that dumb, which makes him pretty dumb.

"Uhm?"

Thomas swallows. He's still not looking at me. "Adult stuff," he peeps.

"Adult st—"

"Yes, for god's sake. Please stop asking."

"But what do you do with them, Thomas? Am I missing out? I didn't know adults have toys—"

"No. Don't search anything up."

"I will if you don't tell me what it means."

"Viviette, I swear. Don't do this to me."

I tilt my head to the side, into his vision. I blink a few times. "I don't understand. What toys?"

"Goddamn it— there are no toys! Forget about that. There are letters in there because a psychologist once told me to do that so I won't get overwhelmed that easily."

Okay. Now I feel bad. I didn't want to force him to tell me about the letters. I wanted to see how he'd stammer over explaining the ridiculous toys.

I think he sees my guilty expression—except he sees it with different context—because his gaze softens and he takes a step back.

"Sorry. I didn't want to snap at you," he says.

"It's fine. I shouldn't have forced it out of you," I tell him. And I don't say another word about the letters. "Maybe we should just go to sleep."

"Yeah, maybe." He shrugs. His shoulders are so tense that he isn't able to rise them much. And they don't lower for a good minute.

"Thomas, I won't look into the drawer," I promise him.

Not again, at least. I feel unbelievably bad about everything that I've caused the past minutes.

It's visible that relief hits him. "Okay. I mean— it's you. If you really feel the need to look, go freaking on, I guess. I don't really care what you do—" he stops. Takes a breath. "Okay. What I'm saying is thank you, and that I won't get extremely pissed if you get too curious."

"Why not? It's your privacy. You don't have to allow anyone to look in that drawer."

"Yes, I know, but like, it's you." He shrugs another time.

Me. The one he wrote to for at least nine years.

"You can do anything and I won't get pissed," he admits. The words leave his mouth so fast and nervously that I have trouble understanding.

I hate it. He needs to sternly tell me that I can't look in the drawer. I know I'll do it again if he doesn't. He's too nice about it. My curiosity overpowers that. It would not have overpowered him if he had just snapped or yelled or strictly told me to never look there.

I walk back over to him, so I can look up at him and so he looks past my face again. "You'd get very pissed if I do something dangerous right now."

"Worried. I'd get worried," he corrects.

I smile. "And a little bit pissed. I know you. But I get what you're saying. You won't get pissed at me even if I'd throw a bucket of water over your head."

"That's a perfect example of that I meant."

"I know."

Now it's starting to feel like last Wednesday again. With the sun going down behind him and getting to look at him from close up. Being so close to him that I feel his presence. His breaths on my face. The warmth of him, once again.

I wonder what he'd do if I would press my lips to his now. Like, right now. I think he'd get a heart attack.

I think that tonight, I'm going to fall asleep to imagining how he'd kiss me.

I wonder if he thinks of things like that. I don't care if other boys do or don't. I just want to know if Thomas does. Did he think a lot when he kissed Teresa? Has he ever thought of kissing me, besides that moment when we were eleven?

I kind of hope he has.