I press a hand to my mouth to keep any laughs from slipping.

"OW!" For the millionth time, Thomas tries to kick his mom away from him, but it doesn't faze her at all.

"Lie still," she commands. "And if you even dare to kick me one more time, I'll tell your father his son is violating pregnant women!"

"When you told me about giving me a message, I thought you meant a nice, relaxing back scratch ritual, but you are squeezing all the blood out of my calves!"

Well, yeah, she is really like... massaging, but that's her job. Untie all the muscle knots. And Thomas definitely has those.

And I'm here because Indie called me over for 'emotional support'.

Though it was about time. We already spent ten minutes apart from each other and it was hell.

It's currently Saturday, two days after the whole Mr. Leadford incident. I don't want to think about it again. I only think about it when I pray he won't show up during science ever again.

I wanted to take my mind off things by buying some material to sew with, but he approached when I was still filming. For once, I actually resisted. All my movements and his movements combined caused my phone to fall. He stopped the video. Then he, way too calmly, explained he could offer extra help for science. I was shaking my head and saying 'no' all of the time, yet he managed to force me towards the school with him.

Then eventually, I gathered enough courage to elbow him in the nose and kick him in the balls before I ran off. I hit my head against a lantern, blacked out, then walked home. Waited for about ten minutes before Thomas arrived.

"I'm done!" Thomas bangs his head against the bed, his fists gripping the edges of it. "My legs are not some piece of dough you can knead— ow, fuck."

I smile. "Don't you think you're a bit dramatic?"

"No. This is hell. I won't be able to walk for three days after this."

"Alright. On with your back, then," Indie says.

He relaxes. "Thank you."

Who's going to tell him that muscle knots are more common in the shoulders...?

☯︎︎

For lunch, we went to my house. Thomas is currently hanging out with Minho while I'm working on some clothes. Aris is sitting on my bed, sketchbook in his hands.

"Has it helped?" I ask. "Coming here?"

He doesn't open up about anything. It's understandable, of course. But whenever I try to get something out of him, I really have to push it. I don't want to push, so I only ask the things I want to know once. The reply he gives is what I have to be satisfied with.

"Yeah," he says. The pause between his words are so long that I nearly start thinking the 'yeah' is it. But it isn't, "I get more distraction. And I'm... more free. They're not constantly watching me or looking at me like I'm some sick thing— which I am, but you know." He shrugs. "I like it here. Unfortunately, I'm gonna have to leave at some point."

I totally forgot about that. I've gotten so used to his presence— the presence of my friend. "Oh, right. Where do you think you go then?"

"It depends on what they decide. I don't really have a word in it," Aris explains. "Either back to the institution, or some kind of group home. Foster care is an option. I'll turn eighteen in May. If I'm stable enough by then, they can give me a place to live on my own."

"What do you want?"

"Last one," he decides immediately.

I spin around on my chair. "To me, you can stay until you turn eighteen. If needed, longer. I don't care how long you stay— I just hope you get a nice place after this."

He looks up from his notebook, a small smile growing on his lips. "You're the nicest person I've ever met, Viviette," he says quietly, then turns back to the notebook.

His words sink in deeply. They drag my heart down to the bottom of my stomach, where it sits for a while. You're the nicest person I've ever met, Viviette. And I'm just doing the bare minimum. I'm just being a friend.

I watch him draw for a few seconds, my eyes probably big. I'm not sure what to reply to that. Oh, yeah, let's just tell him that what I'm doing is normal and that everyone in his life has been rude to him.

"You're one of the nicest ones I've met, too," I reply. "Really."

Really.

There is no way that this boy is the killer. I'm not allowing Thomas to ever say that again. I'll never even consider it again.

"Thank you." His words are simple, but filled with so many emotions that I can tell this means a lot to him.

"You're welcome." I turn around, back to my sewing machine. For a full hour, we work in silence. Sometimes, in silence, he shows me his drawing and I show my work for a nod of approval, and then we go back to doing our own thing.

"What's it like?" I break the silence with words that flopped out of my mouth. "...having schizophrenia? Sorry. I'm just curious."

"It's okay. You're my friend. You're welcome to know." His gaze softens a bit, and so does mine. "It's like... like someone else is controlling your mind. Or like being trapped in a dream, specifically bad ones. There's times when the world is normal, and times when the voices are loud. That's when it's hard to tell what's real."

A lot of times, I can place myself in someone's shoes and imagine what it's like. I don't want to brag, but I feel like I understand certain things. I understand why it's hard for depressive people to, for example, brush their teeth. I understand that people with OCD don't always have an obsession with cleaning, but get compulsive thoughts— thoughts they don't want. I understand how someone's thoughts might be jumping all over the place, with ADHD.

What I simply just can't understand, is what people with schizophrenia see. I can't imagine what's it like or how it feels.

And I guess he can read the thought of my face.

"Sometimes," Aris starts, "I'm sitting in class. It's a regular day. Nothing's going on. Then one girl's head turns to me. The teacher stops talking. I think he picked on me, but he didn't. They're just staring. All of them, eventually. And then they start getting up. Walk towards me. Gather around my table. It took years of... practicing to know it's fake. I used to run out off the classroom when I was younger. In the institution, they were used to this. There, it didn't matter. But imagine you're sitting in class and a random kid suddenly runs off. Imagine all the laughs when it happens again... and again... and again."

The thought of something like that scares me. To see things like that must be horrible. "Is there anything... good about having it?" I ask.

Another little smile of his. "Sometimes, I see ivy growing out of Minho's ears."

I can imagine that. A smile forms on my face.

"Daily, I see objects and animals that apparently don't even exist in real life. But I've seen them since forever, so as a kid, I did believe they had a pink tiger with purple stripes and a fluffy tail in the institution."

"Oh, wow."

My low chuckles cause his smile to widen. "You don't actually have a blue bunny with wings, right?"

"No," I say slowly. "Just a cat. Willow."

"Yeah, well, I see Willow and you on the couch, but also 'Diaval'. He follows you around the house. Okay— that's probably kind of scary to hear. But I always see Diaval and it's hard to not start petting him."

"So in that case, it can be funny, but still a bit weird?"

"Yes." He nods. "I mean, I see a lot more, but most of them are rather unsettling. I won't disturb you."

I shrug. "You can tell me whatever you want to tell. It's quite interesting, to be honest. And scary, indeed, but interesting."

"I'll take it as a compliment."

For a minute, we're silent again. I run my hands over the rough material of the jacket I am making for a certain someone who did not ask for it.

I think I also could've just said it's a gift for Thomas.  

"Do you often talk to Minho and Finn?" I ask.

"Quite a lot. Finn has big interest in psychology, like your mom, so he's always asking questions about what it's like and what other kids in the institution were like. He says he asks me because your mom won't tell him. 'Privacy of her clients' or something."

I snicker. "Alright. And it doesn't bother you?"

"No. He doesn't look at me like I'm crazy. He's just interested, and we get along. He likes the same movies and books as me."

"Building a second brain?" I pull a face.

"No, no, not that one. He may keep that one for himself. I mean all the fantasy things," Aris says. "And Minho... well, it was awkward between us at first. He's not the biggest talker in the first place, right? Well, he is, but not like... not to the people he doesn't know."

"Yes, true."

"Now he acts the same to me as he acts towards Finn."

"He randomly screams in your face and kicks you at the back of your knees all the time?"

"No." Aris laughs out loud. "He's just... normal. He's nice but not overly nice like some people are to me. He doesn't pity me but he does understand things, you know?"

I nod. "Sounds like Minho. What about Thomas?"

"Every time he starts a conversation with me it always leads to you being the subject. And that's his fault. We talk about... sandwiches, for example, and he'd say 'Sage's favorite thing to put on her sandwich is blah blah blah' and there we go again."

I want to laugh really loudly at that, but all I can do is smile to myself. To the butterflies in my stomach as I try to hide my blush.

"He likes you back," Aris says. "No, in fact, he probably likes you even more than you like him."

"I think about him during every conversation, too," I defend, as if it's a competition who thinks about the other the most. "I just keep it inside."

He shakes his head. "Both of y'all are more insane than I am. That says a lot."

"What also says a lot, is that I haven't even shared what my thoughts are. If I'd do that, you'd send me to that institution yourself."

Seriously. Right here, in this room, at the window, I wanted to touch his Adam's apple. Insane, indeed.

"Is that for him, by the way?" Aris points at the jacket.

It has a grayish-brown color. The collar is standing. It has quite a few pockets. Zipper closure.

"Yup." I nod proudly. "Do you think he'll like it?"

"You could give him the poop of his dog and he'd be happy you gave him something," Aris says dryly.

I shake my head. "No, he wouldn't."

"Yeah, he would."

Talking about Mango, though, I think she needs to be walked soon. I'll ask Thomas after I've given him the jacket. He can immediately put it on. And then we'll walk on the beach. I hate walking,  but not with Thomas. I love it with Thomas. I love anything with Thomas.

"Okay, it's finished," I say after a minute of working on the last details. "I'm gonna give it to him right n—"

A knock on the door just when I open it. I nearly slam it right in Thomas's face, but he backs away the last second.

"Shit. Sorry. Are you okay?"

He looks so fine in this light gray shirt. Dark gray cargo pants. The jacket will match nicely. His hair is matted to his forehead, like it always is, except—

"Thomas." I groan out, running my hands through his hair to fix it. Something sticks to my hands when I remove them. "I told you not to use that brand gel. It's too greasy. And what did you drink?"

Dazzled, he blinks a few times. "Huh?"

I grab a cotton pad off my desk. No way I'm getting milk or whatever it is on my sleeve. "It's all over your mouth. You're not a three-year-old." I wipe it off, harshly enough for him to back away.

Yet I'm holding the back of his head, so he can't do much. "This is my mom's job," he groans out.

"Don't act like you don't like it," Aris blurts out from behind.

Nearly offended, I give both of them a glare. "I'm just fixing him. Talking about fixing— Aris, there's a hole in your sleeve. If you need me to repair it, lie it down on my desk someday."

"Can you now focus on me?" Thomas taps my shoulder. He really is three years old. "I've got something for you."

"Well, I've got something for you, too. Who goes first?"

With a hint of surprise in his eyes, he holds up a little white, paper bag. "I'll go. Here." I swear there's redness on his cheeks when he hands it over.

I look inside, gasp, give him a push, then look inside again. "You didn't. I told you not to."

He rubs the back of his head. "I did."

"You idiot. Why would you waste that much money?" I put the bag down on the ground.

His little grin fades. "You're not hap—"

I wrap my arms around him with such force that he almost falls backwards. "Yes, I am. I'm very happy. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

For a second, he's too surprised to do something, then he hugs me back and laughs. "I told you I'd get you a phone."

"And I told you not to." I hug him even tighter.

"Yet you're very happy right now," he murmurs confusingly.

Minho appears from... somewhere. He always appears from somewhere. "When girls say they don't want something, they do want it, Thomas."

"And the other way around, too?"

"No. When they say they want something they also want it."

"So they always want it?"

"Yes."

"No," I say.

"Yes."

I push Minho's head away. The hug lasts for a few more seconds, then I open take the phone out of the bag. It's a brand new one. The case is clear, showing off the fact that the phone's purple. A pastel, purple color.

"My present doesn't compare to this," I mutter, handing him the jacket.

But his eyes wide in a second. "Oh, wow. That's perfect for this weather."

I look down, now flustered. "It wasn't that hard to make. Didn't take very—"

"Thank you," he interrupts. And we're hugging again. I like the way that every time we hug, he hugs so tightly that I get lifted up a bit. I like the way I get to inhale his comfortable smell. I like the way we sometimes spin around a bit, and the way he buries his head in the crook of my neck.

"Do we need to walk Mango?" I ask.

"No," Minho is apparently still there. "Indie did that just a minute ag—"

"Yes," Thomas says, nodding heavily. "We need to walk Mango."

"On the beach," I add.