Running

“Sanya! Girl, why are you staring at me?” Katie asks. She’s been walking back and forth across the apartment, bringing armfuls of laundry from her bedroom to the laundry room— she sorts her clothes, but doesn’t have baskets for all the piles—and every time she crosses the living room, I’ve been…yeah…staring at her.

“You’re not upset,” I say, a sort of relief mingled with the proclamation.

“What?” Katie drops her armload of laundry on the floor and puts her hands on her hips. She’s theatrical, and I love it about her. “Of course I’m not upset. I’m just wondering whether generic creepy behavior is grounds for evicting a roommate.”

I give her a deadpan look. “Haha. You love me too much to evict me. I can feel it.” My last words come out with an intensity that would make anyone pause.

Katie’s lips twitch, almost smiling. She scrunches her eyes in an exaggerated squint, like she’s trying to get me in focus. “What is up with you? You’ve been extra weird all week. And yeah, you know I love your weird.”

I preen at the compliment. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.” I hold her gaze from across the room.

Katie rolls her eyes, but I can see her squirm. She likes it when I flirt with her. She just has too much unresolved trauma to let herself act on it. And I’ll never force it, of course. I’ve never been so comfortable with a person, and I’m blessed enough to call her my roommate and best friend.

The spiraling depression she’s been trying to hide these past few months has gutted me, and I can’t even talk to her about it because she doesn’t want to talk. I won’t lose her by flirting too hard, and I certainly am not going to lose her by pushing her to open up. So, last week, I swallowed my pride and went to visit Kristy and her witch coven.

I never thought I’d do it, either.

I am a woman of science. I’m not going to believe something unless it’s proven by some sort of scientific method.

It has to do with pheromones, Kristy’s psychologist friend told me. She was a member of the coven, but was also a PsyD, so when she explained to me that my ability to sense people’s emotions to an uncannily specific degree was actually due to a heightened awareness of people’s pheromones…well, I found it both very creepy and also credible.

In the four days since I visited the coven, I’ve been doing that thing that undergrad psychology majors do. I’ve been “diagnosing” every one I come across, except that I keep it to myself.

You’re pissed at yourself. Metaphorically beating yourself up over something.

You are super happy can’t concentrate on anything else.

You are unfathomably angry.

You’re a smug bastard.

The “diagnosing” feels good, because I can finally admit to myself that this is a real thing I can do, and not some party trick.

I’d been staring at Katie because she was screaming inside. Ignoring her would have been like trying to block out a fire alarm. She felt like she was a guinea pig on a wheel that she desperately wanted to jump off of, but she was chained to it, forced to run, and she was tired. So tired. And she wanted it all to stop. All of it.

It’s a lot for one person to contain.

And I can feel all of it.

I need to do something about it.

Katie, on the other hand, has just been running around our apartment with armloads of laundry. Running, running, running.

Okay, she is standing still at the moment, but only because I freaked her out. Good. I am…what am I? Does this make me a witch? I should freak her out.

“I visited Kristy last week,” I tell her finally, standing up from the couch.

Katie tilts her head, trying to parse whether I’m lying. “Why?” she asks finally.

I bypass her question. “I can feel you running, Katie,” I tell her, letting the crushing sadness wash over me. My face droops with the weight of it.

Her expression flickers with confusion and vulnerability, and I can see her breathing quicken.

“I can feel it, Katie. I went to see Kristy to have her confirm it.”

“Confirm what?” Katie’s voice sounds hollow, and she hugs herself like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“That I’m an empath.”

Katie closes her eyes and keeps them closed. She looks like she’s in mourning. “Sanya,” she breathes out, her eyes still closed. She purses her lips. Swallows. “I’m sorry.”

A strangled, animalistic sob leaves me unexpectedly.

Katie’s eyes fly open at the sound.

The sobs feel like a release. I’ve been holding onto her pain in secret, and it feels good to let it show.

Katie watches me in horror, and she starts shaking her head. “Sanya,” she chokes out. “Can you—can you just ignore it? I’m fine, really.”

“I can’t ignore it,” I nearly shout. I didn’t expect to get angry at her. I’m not angry at her. I’m furious with life itself, but not with her. “Katie, it’s suffocating me. How can you possibly be okay?”

“Well, I tried not being at all,” Katie snaps, matching my volume, and I flinch back. I know this. I already know this.

“I wish you’d just tell me what you need,” I say. “I don’t want to feel it on my own. I want to hear it from you.”

“It’s not for you to worry about,” Katie counters.

“That’s physically impossible,” I grit. “When I can feel it. I feel you running, gasping for air, and struggling to stay on your feet. You can’t get around that, Katie. I already know. I just need to know know. I read hearts, Katie, not minds.”

Katie slumps into a chair, while I stay standing, looking down at her.

“Just…” I say, on the verge of tears again. “Just try talking to me, Katie. Maybe not today, but…try. Please?” Katie looks up at me through shiny eyes. Her lip trembles. She doesn’t respond. “I love you,” I tell her, straight-faced. “You know that, right? I’m yours to wreck.”

Katie looks at me like I’m a ghost. I hold her gaze, refusing to back down.

“Katie?” I prompt forcefully. I haven’t looked away from her. I’m daring her to run again.

Katie takes a shaky breath. I can feel her shying away, calculating her movements, itching to crawl somewhere and hide, but I can also feel the thing that bloomed in her when I said, "I’m yours to wreck". Because how many people have someone like that? I’d always hoped she was that person for me, but I’m done denying that I’d be that for her, if she’ll only let me.

I can feel, then, as that blooming thing pushes her fears and the demons out of the way, just enough. Just enough for her to nod. And for her to say, “Okay.”