Felt Like You Really Needed One

My vision starts misty and groggy; my focus fine-tuning with every blink. I’m on the couch, I’m still wearing jeans, what time is it, how much time have I lost now–?

…I’m covered in Isaac’s weighted blanket. That asshole.

He’s always insistent that I get a “good night’s sleep” upon coming home and taking a warm bath, like such a thing even exists in my line of work. I get it though, I do. Appreciate it.

Still.

My phone is face up, charging, and plugged into the nearby power strip. I reach over to grab it, but the blanket roughly rolls me out of bed, onto the floor, and into the world’s sweatiest mostly-meat burrito. The blanket hugs my back as I cradle the phone in my hands. 11:24 AM.

Sigh…it was supposed to be a quick nap.

I unlock the phone, preparing for a flurry of missed call notifications, as well as emails and texts. And sure enough, they bleed down the screen without fail. The first thing I notice is that only Sherry Pop left me voicemails, and only Manager Cal left me texts. Which I suppose is just like them.

I definitely know what the voicemails are: most certainly it is Ms. Pop screaming into her phone about how I need to strive to be a better leader, why am I not here yet, do you know who I am, make sure to bring apple-cider vinegar, business as usual.

There are emails from hair & make-up and production, asking for my whereabouts and expertise. The majority of them are from Cal: the earliest ones are sleek and professional, but the inbox quickly deteriorates into an army of compositions unfit to lay siege upon corporate eyes.

Not that I expect grade-A marked emails from anyone other than myself on this team, but once in a while…eh, maybe just a smidge of professionalism? Instead, I receive:

Kyran get yoUR ASS DOwN HERE RIGHT NOw!!11!!!1

And.

Hurry up or i’m docking youre pay

I almost physically shudder.

dude she is bawling her eyes out where thE heck are you???

It all falls apart when I’m not there: this is why I don’t take eight-hour naps.

“Mornin’, sleepy!” Isaac’s sugar-coated greeting disagrees with his charging down the stairs and into the kitchen, the "thunderousness" of both actions being the only similarity that binds them. I quickly wriggle out of my pressure prison to take a peek at the state my roommate’s in today.

By the time I arrive at the kitchen doorway he’s whizzed past me, and before I can turn to see where he’s gone, he’s whizzed past me yet again, now washing a frying pan.

“Good morning.”

“Hi!” He answers, breathless. “I’m making scrambled eggs and bacon. Unless you want a different type of egg. But lemme know quick so I can prepare it first.”

“You don’t have to make me breakfast; you’re rushing enough as it is.”

“Well, yeah, but…” He turns sheepish. “…If I don’t, you might not eat anything.” He dries the bottom with a rag and slams it atop the lit stove, rushing out of the kitchen again. The pan heats up on the stove while Isaac unfurls the weighted blanket burrito, dragging it onto open carpet and hastily folding.

“You’re probably right, but I hardly think an extra portion is worth a tardy.”

“You…!” He stares at me frozen, incredulous. But seems to snap out of it quickly, shaking his head and chucking the blanket onto the couch. “An ‘extra portion’ is always worth a tardy, especially since I don’t trust you to make something for yourself.”

I only scoff in response—he knows I’m capable, he just thinks it’s his sole mission on Earth to get a rise outta me. I lean on the doorway waiting, but when the conversation continues to still, and Isaac sprints into the kitchen without a word, I know it’s my responsibility to pick it back up.

“So why’re you spiraling out of control today?”

“How do you want your eggs?”

“Any way that’s most convenient for you.” I’m shot the duskiest glare I’ve ever seen, so I immediately backpedal. “Scrambled, I mean. I said scrambled, didn’t I?” He rolls his eyes and starts pouring whisked egg into the buttered pan.

“I’m supposed to be present for auditions today.”

“Ah, your new role as Lord over sticky present-pubescents.”

He chuckles. “Right? But it’s looking more like Co-Lord for now—I doubt Gallagher would ever give any of my ideas the light of day after the resounding recommendation the director of music gave me.”

“You think he’s jealous?”

“Pfft, no…!” He tells me, but his face is fighting a smirk and he quickens his cooking speed. “What about you? Usually, you’re the one rushing out the door.”

“Eh, technically I am late today, but I have you to thank for that.” His face is immediately distraught when he turns to me, and when I motion toward the pan with the burning strips of bacon, he waxes downcast and hurries to plate them.

“...You looked absolutely exhausted. You came home at 2 in the morning.”

“At least we learned a valuable lesson about letting me get a good night’s sleep, huh?” I get in a shoulder nudge before he takes the pan to the sink. “And in any case, it’s fine; I don’t care. They don’t pay me enough to care about punctuality.”

“Okay…” He still looks so…miserable. He hands me my plate and trudges over to the couch. What is up? I forgo a plastic fork and go straight to the couch to sit beside him. No one speaks for a minute, but when I open my mouth he catches it.

“I have a good 10 more minutes before I need to get moving again.”

“Cool.” His smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes look like he wants to cry. It’s weird. It makes me feel…weird. This feels like a delicate situation, where whatever I say next will be crucial for finding out why Isaac is acting this way. But he knows I’m not good at this stuff; I can’t read minds. Not even freaky minds that are (seemingly) bubbly and jubilated 24/7.

I make my attempt.

“Woooow,” I really drag it out, elongating that syllable. “Does the reigning king of boundless positivity dare to have a tear fall—”

“I’m not crying, though.” I narrow my eyes.

“—dare to let a trivial grievance cloud his visage and cap his infectious happiness?”

“So what you’re saying is,” he finally turns his body toward me. “I make you happy?”

“Pfft, no one can make me happy,” I wave away the accusation. “But I do like your company.”

“So just a tad then, huh? I’ll remember that.” I roll my eyes at his conclusion, and he bursts out laughing. Success. I decide to test the waters even further.

“So how are you feeling?” His laughter fades—he looks taken aback.

“What?”

“Yeah: what’s your day looking like today?”

“Oh, ok. Um…well, student auditions are later at 4, but I still have to make preparations for two staff white elephants—”

“Like the game?”

“Yeah. And then I have an idea for a personal gift to give to each teacher so that’s its own thing. I still have some character notes to make to prepare for auditions later at 4, and I’m in charge of donuts. For auditions.”

“Later at…”

“4, yeah.” He chuckles.

“Sounds like you’re really booked today.”

“I’m trying to keep it together.”

“Well then, don’t let me be a roadblock on your warpath,” I stand with my empty plate and motion for Isaac to hand me his. He does…reluctantly? And I leave for the sink.

“Oh. But, didn’t you want to tell me about your plans for today?”

“I wouldn’t wanna bore you with the details.”

“I wouldn’t be bored…”

“Sure! I know that. But I can tell you’re super busy today and my being a distraction helps nothing. I’m just glad you’re feeling better this morning.”

It sounds like he has more to say, but he just sighs in response. “Fine,” I’m drying my hands when he walks into the kitchen. He towers over, hands on hips, almost expectant. “Have a beautiful day at work, Kyran.”

“You too,” I mimic his tone, and pat him several times on the head, even making an attempt to ruffle his dreads.

“Ugh!” He rolls his eyes and swats my hand away, groaning as he turns tail for the door, possibly catching my incessant chortling. “Bye!”

“Bye!” And the door clicks.

Hour number who knows into my Monday and I’m laid across the couch, carpet, and table. People truly should call out more often, it does wonders for the psyche. And that becomes my genuine mindset for a good while…until I remember how much of my pay had been docked for today.

I grumble when I force myself off the floor—it’s dark, and the TV’s on some nonsense I don’t remember putting on. And…looks like it’s snowing! Isaac’ll be raving about that for as long as it lasts.

I hear the door click and I feel the fwoosh of cold air rush into the living room.

“Hey, roomie.”

The darkness SLAMS in response. Woah.

A flick of the light switch and the room is bathed in the overhead’s gleam. My mess is exposed to have taken over the couch and most of the table. I instantly bend sheepish, awaiting the grand “taking care of yourself” spiel I’m graced with constantly.

…But I turn back to Isaac, and his head is hung. His coat is littered with snow and he’s already dropped his backpack on the ground. It’s silent.

“Issac?”

His boots tread slowly across the carpet and stop and the dining room table. There, he just sits down with his head in his arms. Oh boy; something happened.

I carefully make my way over to the table—as if I were afraid of disturbing a peace, or scaring him off—and take a seat to his right. He doesn’t move.

“Hi.” He doesn’t move. “Isaac?” Still.

“How…was your day?”

His head springs up at this, but very quickly his surprised expression sours as his hardened eyes bore into mine.

“What do you think?”

“Uh—” His malice catches me off guard— “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No. I want to hear about your day instead.” He isn’t looking at me anymore, just staring straight ahead.

“Nothing really happened; it was pretty boring. And besides, it seems a bit insignificant right now…”

“I don’t care if it’s boring. I wanna hear about your day.”

“Seriously Isaac, what happened?”

“Seriously Kyran,” he spits. “You can drop it. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna share with the class, then why should I?”

“…Geez.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think that…whatever problem you have is a little more important than whatever the hell I ate today?” He doesn’t say anything. “You clearly had a shit day!”

“Obviously!” his voice booms, it feels like his words bounce against the walls. “Obviously I had a bad day. Should I give you a treat for having eyes?”

I take in a breath. “…I’m really, really trying to stay calm here.”

No answer.

“Just tell me.”

He buries his head in his arms again. Fine.

“Then, since you seem to be better off sulking in here, alone, I’ll be in my room,” I threaten. “Alone.”

“Stop. I know what you’re doing.” He muffles.

“So if I stay you’ll tell me why you’re so angry?”

“Obviously, I want you to stay.”

“Don’t tell me what’s obvious, Isaac,” I poke at his shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong.” I hear him sniff. “I’m not a mind-reader. These past few days felt like I’ve been tip-toeing through a minefield. You’re literally never anything but carefree so it’s confusing. Like a different person.”

This time, he mutters some objection.

“What?”

He lifts his head and seems to speak at no one in particular, staring down the wall. “I’m the same person. I’m still me. It’s just that you and everyone else who freaking meets me assume that I want to be happy all the time. Like being happy is just who I am. It didn’t matter to me before, but then my colleague started taking advantage of my deference when we’re supposed to be co-directors, and all my students and the general masses think I just have no problems ever…!”

He takes in a sharp inhale, crosses his arms, and finally looks at me. His brows are furrowed and unmoving, and his eyes suggest…that there’s a specific feeling he needs to impress on me.

“Do I do that to you?”

“…Yeah.”

“But—”

“I don’t mind you asking me how my day was. I love it when you do that. When you do that it feels like you care about me,” he interrupts, exasperated. “But then I ask you about yours and you shut me down, every. Single. Time. I don’t want to be…perceived that way, just because I look like I’m supposed to be happy.”

“…I care about you.” I manage.

“Ugh, I know. I know that! You just…you…everytime I…” He’s fumbling over words and turning over his hands a lot, but speaking doesn’t seem like the best idea, so I just wait for him to explain. “Okay. I—you care about me. I know that. But my thing is, is that you won’t let me care about you.”

“Uh. What do you…?”

“I genuinely want to hear how your day’s been. I want you to trust me with your feelings. I want you to stop belittling yourself because it seriously infuriates me.” He cradles my shoulders and squeezes. Looks at me directly in my eyes. “You make me angry, ‘cause how can you seem to hate yourself so much when I’m right here? Loving you?”

“I don’t…” Tears well up, and I’m fighting them hard. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I’m only ever joking when…I say things like that.

“Don’t cry, you’re gonna make me cry,” he pleads, tears already streaming down his face, and his lip noticeably quivers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I uh, didn’t know I did that. I didn’t know it…hurt you.”

“Mm.”

We end up sitting in silence for what feels like a long while. The snow outside the window flurries wildly, in all sorts of directions. The light from the living room bleeding into the darkness of the dining room is so noticeable now, like someone put a lamp down really far away. It feels…important, that he’s crying, and vulnerable, and that I’m here and able to do something, anything about it.

So I do the first thing that comes to mind.

I stand up and pull Isaac up from his seat as well. He’s still freely sobbing, and my cryptic movements are met with an awkward smile and a tiny “what’re you doing?” as I urge him to remain standing. I wait for him to honestly look at me before I say.

“When we’re both calmed down…I want to hear about your really shit day, ‘cause I love listening to you, and I love caring about you. And afterward…you can ask me about my day, and I’ll tell you, ‘cause I want to be that person who trusts you with my, um, feelings.” He laughs and continues to wipe away at the never-ending stream. “Or vice-versa. It doesn’t matter to me, y’know? Okay? I promise.”

And I wrap my arms around his torso, pulling him into a hug.

I’m hyperaware of my stiffness, and Isaac’s surprise only makes me feel more awkward, but I know that this is the thing that would matter most to him in this moment. The thing that shows that I’m serious.

Because my initiating feels so seriously strange.

“You’re hugging me!” He exclaims, sniffing excitedly.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t hug anybody!”

“Mm.”

“Apart from the crying, this is the best day of my life—I so needed a hug from you,” he sniffs.

“We, I…ugh, this is so weird…”

“I’m gonna hug you all the time now~”

I chuckle, nervousness creeping up but I bite it back. “Oh no.”

“Hugs are something you most desperately need,” he ascertained, squeezing even harder. “Hugs, and you only saying good things about yourself.”

“Ah, baby steps…”

“Let’s go clean up your mess and watch some TV! What do you have on now?”

“Um, some cartoon. But Isaac, are you sure that—”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” he pulls back and beams at me. “I’m sure and you’re golden. We can talk later. You’ve really made my night.” And he pulls me into the tightest hug—bursting with vigor, love, promise—and dips into the kitchen, assumedly to grab a trash bag.

I feel so impossibly frazzled. There are goosebumps on my arms, and I’m so quick to attribute it to the freezing autumn cold. But for these short moments where I’m frozen in place and I don’t know what to do with my arms…I consider, for a moment…that he is the reason.