Cold.

I remember the day that the strawberries didn't taste good anymore. That was the day that I noticed that your parents never really looked at you. You were ten, and they hadn't said "I love you" since you were a baby. Not to you, and not to each other, either.

I asked you questions that you never really answered. You said, "I don't care. They can do whatever the hell they want." I convinced myself that you only said that because you were 13 and naturally rebellious. I wish it was true.

Our freshman year in high school, we were attached at the hip. When my cat died, you came to the funeral. When I had appendicitis and was imprisoned in the hospital for days, you slept in the lumpy, pink chair next to my cot. I tried to be there for you, too, but you always pushed me away, muttering that you didn't need my help, that you could take care yourself, but you knew I didn't believe you.

At age 16, you were skinny and pale. You started walking home from school; you said you didn't like the bus anymore. "Too many people." I joined you. We would go down to your basement (your mom, recently divorced, was never home to ask how your day was), and I watched you lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling. Your silence scared me.

One day, we were sitting in a field just outside of town, just talking. The sky was a warm blue covered in a layer of sheer clouds. Suddenly, you stood up and headed toward the wall of pine trees at the right of the abandoned pasture. I followed you, wary and curious. You just kept walking. "Where are you going?," I called, struggling to escape from a thorny bush in which my dress was hopelessly caught. You didn't answer.

After what seemed like hours, you stopped. I reached you, panting from the exercise. My shaking hand barely touched your shoulder, and you wheeled around, brow furrowed in confusion, and kissed me. I pulled away, frightened by your forwardness. You leaned in and kissed me again, this time more gently. I let you.

After that day, you let me hold your hand, but not without flinching first. I tried to warn you when I was about to touch you, but no matter how obvious I was, the flinching never stopped.

You told me about your nightmares. You told me that it didn't matter what you ate, how long you slept, whether you took a sleeping pill... it was always the same nightmare, beginning and ending in the same place.

On a humid July afternoon, you were taking a nap on the couch in my living room, head on my lap while I was dozing, running my fingers through your disheveled red hair. You woke with a jerk, and stared up at me with wide eyes. You let out a quiet sob, then began crying uncontrollably. I held you there, letting you nuzzle deeper and deeper into the tiny crevice between my shoulder and collar bone. I tried to hide you from whatever monster was chasing you, but its been years, and I still haven't rid you of him.

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I sit here, holding your hand. This time, you don't flinch. "I love you," I say, but you don't hear me.
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LW // 11.24.09