Only Half Here

Soft hands grip the railing. It’s cold outside, the evening sun dimming into the horizon. His heart flutters with anticipation. He turns to the side table and downs the glass of wine in a single gulp before swinging off the balcony. The wine glass falls with him. He listens for it shattering. 

He never hits the ground. 

He wakes to pale pink lips and hazel eyes. 

Good morning. she whispers. Rounded features, a light dusting of freckles over dimpled cheeks. An oversized pink shirt with a smear of yellow paint on the left sleeve. Lidded eyes, the brown rippling in the morning light. 

He kisses her forehead before rolling over to grab his phone. 10:00 AM. May 28th, Saturday. He rarely gets a weekend. Maybe it’s the universe telling him to enjoy himself. 

A warm hand traces his spine. His muscles stiffen. He turns back over, phone forgotten on the bed stand. She’s smirking. She looks pretty when she smirks. She looks pretty when she does anything. 

He moves to grab her. She slips out of the covers and pads to the doorway. 

Propping himself up, he follows her to the kitchen. It’s a different house. He knows this place. Maybe he’s ended up here before.

He wanders over to the dining table. It’s a funky wooden shape. He wonders if she made it. The sound of eggs sizzling fills the air. He tries to collect himself.

What’s the matter with you? 

He looks up. She’s sat across from him, features creased with worry.

I don’t know. He replies truthfully. She lifts an eyebrow but drops the subject, busying herself with the stove. He runs a hand through his hair. It’s longer than last time.

A plate of eggs appears in front of him. They smell so good that it makes him nauseous. They eat in silence. She looks at him critically, trying to piece him apart and put him back together. He thinks his head might float away like a balloon and burst. She opens her mouth to speak. He quickly pushes himself out of the chair, the silverware clattering out of his hands. 

Bathroom, he croaks, stumbling away from the table. 

Making it to the bathroom, he staggers to the sink. Blood trails from his nostrils, red and rich. His head pounds. He grabs the roll of tissue paper and tries to stop the blood. He’s unsuccessful, the first drops of crimson running off his chin and onto the white countertop. He crumples the tissues and lets them sit in the sink basin. The blood kisses his jawline before falling. Salty, metallic reminders on his skin sink deep into his brain. Memories wash up on the shore, starving for land.

Something still feels off. His stomach lurches uncomfortably. He scrambles to the toilet, throwing the lid open with a clatter and heaving into the bowl. He gags again and again. Behind him, the door creaks open. 

Honey? She calls, slipping into the bathroom. A strangled noise escapes his throat. Her eyes fall on the sink, then onto the blood on the floor.

What happened? Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance?

He closes his eyes. 

I’m okay. Please don’t call an ambulance. 

There’s blood. In the sink, on the floor, on you.

Don’t you trust me? 

Of course, she answers, reaching for the roll of toilet paper and folding it for him. He gladly accepts it, tilting his head upwards and pinching. The blood has slowed. She turns the faucet on and lets it wash away the red.

Do you want medication? She asks gently. No, he insists, moving to stand up from the bowl. He hauls himself up with a grunt, rubbing at his head. See, I’m fine. 

I must have caught something, he mutters, reaching to flush the toilet. He then rinses his mouth and washes his hands, relaxing in the warm water. The blood comes off easily, tainting the water before swirling down the drain. 

I’ll have to keep you away from Leandro, she muses. He freezes, grinding his teeth into his cheek and drawing blood. Leandro, Leandro– 

Big brown eyes, wavy strands of hair, soft skin. Dimples, clumsy feet. Tiny fingers. So pretty. So young, so innocent. His nose starts bleeding again. He curses, ripping off another section of the toilet paper.

Did it start again? She asks, gently turning him towards her. He awkwardly holds the toilet paper to his nose as she looks him over.

Would some ice help? 

It takes time to register. I have a son. I have a kid.

Huh? 

Ice? She repeats. I’ll get some for you.

She backs out of the room, leaving him with his racing thoughts. He stands there dumbly: tissue against his nose, head tipped upwards, blood on the tile. All he can think about is Leandro. All he can think about is how he must be the stupidest man alive. He doesn’t know how to feel about Leandro. He feels sorry that Leandro has him as a father. He feels elated: He has a beautiful wife, a perfect child, and a family. He wonders how he cares for Leandro; Is it the same way he loves her? He sees his dark eyes, the same lush hair, the same restless soul. He sees it all in Leandro. That scares him. 

Someone enters the bathroom. He’s slow to whirl around, caught off guard. She’s returned with ice and a glass of water. 

Are you sure you’re okay? 

Yes. The blood stopped, see? He removes the tissue speckled with red. She looks at it, unimpressed. Fine, she grumbles, setting the glass of water on the counter. Drink up. He gladly takes it, washing the taste of bile from his throat. 

I feel much better, he insists. 

Sure. He raises an eyebrow. Seriously. I’m fine. He gathers the soiled tissues, turning to throw them into the trashcan. I’ll quickly clean this up-

No, you won’t, she cuts him off. You’ll sit on the couch and relax for at least half an hour. Now. Shoo. 

He chucks the tissues into the trashcan and takes the ice with him. He feels guilty leaving a mess to clean up, but he’d rather not get yelled at for lingering. He heads to the bedroom, grabbing his phone from the bed stand. It unlocks with Face ID, thankfully. He opens his photo album just as he reaches the living room. The coach is a funky shade of blue. Placing the ice on and off his face, he starts at the beginning. Pictures of them going out on dates, pictures of them on vacation. A picture of them getting married: Them alone on the beach, toes brushing the surf. The trail of her gown tossed to the side, and his suit jacket folded neatly behind him. They sit on the shore, her spilling into his lap as they look at the sea. 

Their first house: The same house he’s sitting in now. Painting the walls, hanging the pictures. The balcony, fireworks strewn around them as they share a kiss underneath the stars and flares. Anniversary after anniversary. A positive pregnancy test and a blue gender reveal cake. 

Mouth open, lost in thought. Was it a mistake? He makes a lot of those. Makes, made. All the same. 

Her belly swelling through the months. The ultrasounds. The hospital pictures. Finally: A beautiful, wailing, baby boy. His heart swells. I love you, he thinks. My most beautiful mistake. I love you. 

The picture after he remembers too: Midnight scenery, windswept hair. Long auburn hair contrasting with his messy black hair. She stands in the middle of the frame, hand reaching up to cup his cheek. Her fingers brush over his rough stubble. He remembers shivering, not just from the wind. Her hand slips up his backside. His lips crash onto hers as they sway in the rhythm of their heartbeats. 

Pictures of Leandro. Leandro gurgling, videos of him happily babbling, pictures of him making mess after mess. Three handprints hung on the wall: One navy, one orange, and one tiny gold. Him laughing as Leandro grabs his crisp white shirt, leaving traces of gold everywhere. Leandro wobbles on two stubby legs, standing up and falling forward onto him as he rushes to pepper him in kisses. Sweet, domestic things. The sound of a trashcan opening prompts him to turn off the phone. 

Are you sure you’re good? 

Yes.

No medication?

No. 

She checks his forehead for a fever. Finding none, she rocks on her heels.

I’m okay, he mutters. His head feels heavy. He could use a nap. As if reading his mind, she sits him down, propping the pillows underneath him. Rest up. You’ll feel better soon. 

He falls asleep instantly. 

He wakes to unconfined laughter. Blearily opening his eyes, he props himself up. He feels better, to some degree. His eyes look for the source of the noise, resting upon a babbling child wobbling around his mother. Leandro.

He quickly rises from the couch, masking the abruptness of the motion with a long stretch. She turns to face him. 

Good…evening, she smiles, looking up from her phone. He greets her with a nod, padding over to plop down on the playmat. Close enough to watch, far enough not to disturb anything. Leandro bumbles around, eyes lighting up in recognition at the sight of him. His hands twitch in anticipation as Leandro stumbles over to him. He giggles happily, wrapping around his arm and moving to clutch onto his t-shirt, drooling all over it. He gently hugs Leandro closer, breathing in the scent of freshly washed hair, the soft strands tickling his face. Leandro shrieks, grabbing at his hair and tugging. He laughs, loud and deep. He kisses Leandro’s head. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

He realizes that he’d die for this beautiful boy. He would sell his soul to see him laugh. He’d do anything to see him shriek with joy. He lifts his head to see her watching him, an odd expression on her face. He presses another kiss to Leandro’s hair and another to his forehead before lifting Leandro into the air while lying on his back. Leandro babbles excitedly, brown eyes wide. He bounces him gently up and down for a while before getting up. She’s there instantly, taking Leandro from him and cradling him. He gets up with a groan, his back wincing. 

Not so young anymore, hmm? 

I got old. She frowns at him. Leandro yawns. 

I’m going to put him to bed. Leandro, is there anything you want to say to Daddy?

Leandro squeals excitedly, pointing a chubby little finger at him. 

Da! Da! Da-da!

His eyes crinkle as he smiles broadly, walking over to kiss him goodnight. He bends down to whisper into the baby’s ear.

Daddy loves you so much. His voice cracks on the last part. 

But you know that already. You’re my beautiful boy, right? Leandro bobs his head happily, making grabby hands towards him. He leans in closer for one more touch. Goodnight Leandro. I love you so much. 

She gently carries Leandro up the stairs to the nursery, footsteps fading away. He grabs a bottle of wine and pours himself a large glass. He slides the balcony door open, the wine sloshing with each step. Standing by the railing, hand grasping the cold metal, he wonders if it would be better to be a coward and jump before she confronts him. 

Two more hands grip the metal railing. She looks at him. His eyes water. You’re…different, she muses, brushing her thumb over his hand. 

What gave it away? 

I don’t know, she admits. A feeling. 

He nods, gulping before finally turning to face her. He sets the wine glass down. I love you so much, he croaks. He needs to tell her. She needs to know. I love you, and I need you to-

She cuts him off by opening her arms, inviting him in for a hug. He gladly accepts, falling forward and sinking into her warmth. I love you. I love you. He breathes her in, and exhales the words into her skin, as if his breath would carve it into her mind and body. I love you. I love you. I love you. It drones on and on, yet the words are as clear as ever, lingering in the spaces between his heartbeat, echoing in the shuddering breaths pressed against her neck. 

I love you too.

She wraps her hands around him and sways him back and forth.

Do you believe in second chances? She murmurs into his ear. 

No, he replies hoarsely, refusing to meet her eyes. He can’t. Why not? She asks. He buries his head closer into her hair as if that could block out the sound of his reply. 

Some people get too many chances. Some people don’t deserve them.

It’s hard for you to be wrong, isn’t it? 

His silence answers for him. He is a proud man. He’s a  selfish, arrogant man. 

Their breathing fills the quiet. A breeze rustles the branches of an old oak, and the crickets chirp in excitement. Fireflies blink through the dark, pinpricks of light illuminating the night. 

When people die, where do they go? He untangles himself from her, leaning against the cool metal. 

They go to wherever they believe in. Heaven, hell, whatever. 

I think they go to the sky. 

He wrinkles his nose. So the sky is a graveyard of dead people?

She snorts and lightly punches his shoulder. Of course, you have to turn it into something morbid. He smirks, smiling as she leans onto him. 

You’re a good dad, you know? She says out of the blue, voice serious. 

Really? 

You cried when Leandro fell over for the first time. You took him to the ER when his teeth started to come in. You have an old camera that’s filled with pictures of him. 

His eyes begin to water, stinging with tears. 

I love him so much. It’s a confession, an admission of weakness. 

He deserves the best.

And he has the best, she reassures him.

He tilts his head. She watches him sadly. He swallows against the lump in his throat. His chest is too tight. Words die on his lips, swallowed back into his throat to choke on. There are too many unsaid words, too many unanswered questions. 

I love you.

I love you too. 

He purses his lips, trying his hardest not to cry. 

I just have to keep looking. His voice is disconnected from himself, floating away into the sky. 

I guess so.

I can’t remember your name. I can’t-

It’s okay. Shut up for at least five seconds. 

What’s my name?

I can’t answer that. Now be quiet.

Do you love me? 

Of course. She brings him closer into a kiss. It’s slow. It’s passionate. It means everything to him as reality burns around him.

She looks at him one last time. He watches her take a mental picture of him. He knows she’ll forget it all.

She kisses his cheek before leaving and shutting the door behind her. He stays there, the wine untouched, hands in his hair. He waits for her to head up the stairs.

He gets up, clutching the glass as if it would disappear. His legs are saplings, shaking in a violent gale. The wine glass slips out of his hands and through the air, smashing onto the ground below. Shattered glass and liquid rubies. All he does is stare. He’s overwhelmed with the urge to cry, and he does. He swears and sobs, snot and tears running down his face. All he wants is more time. He never has enough time. 

I love you. I love you, Leandro. 

No reply. Not even the wind dares respond. 

Static. Mind-numbing static as screams bounce around half-formed thoughts.

He leans forward, falling off the balcony. If he thinks hard enough, he can feel electrodes pressed to his skin and the wires crisscrossed over his body. He pretends it’s the remnants of a kiss, her body tangled around his in a sleeping embrace.

I love you. I love you, I love, I-

He never hits the ground.

Maybe this time, he’ll wake up happy.

He wakes up in a bed. The room is dark, and there’s a warm figure next to him. 

He closes his eyes and stifles his cries. The tears slip out regardless.