All That's Left in the World

by Erik J. Brown

I pick up his pack and hand it to him, trying to psych myself up to just say the words: ‘I need you, too.’

I don’t know why this person is so damn important. Then it hits me. It’s because it feels like love.

The idea of kissing him isn’t scary or strange – and I have thought about it. A few times. More so at night, before we go to sleep. When he says good night to me it feels like I should kiss him. The idea of holding him doesn’t make me uncomfortable.

I snort and whisper back, ‘I hate you.’ ‘You love me.’

He shakes his head slowly. ‘Can I just … fucking kiss you?’ My face burns and my stomach flips. ‘W-what?’

all that’s left in the world

He groans in misery and I’m taken aback. ‘You kissed me for the first time and I just spent the last ten minutes with a dirty T-shirt stuck in my mouth.’ ‘I … you … what?’ ‘Screw it, never mind. Can you just … do it again?’

If things get hard again, I’ll carry him. And he’ll carry me. And we’ll be OK.