I Fell in Love with Hope - Lancali

Neo is a writer.
—
For the next week of nights, I bring Neo his food. Every time, I steal
a detail. He doesn’t brush his hair. His hands are impeccably clean,
his fingers lean and long. His clothes are a size too large, baggy
around his arms, never so much as a shade livelier than gray. He
likes apples. He always eats his apples.
He spits out his pills. When his father visits, he is anxious. He
flinches at little movements. When his mother visits, he is calm.
When his parents visit together, he is sad.
Neo’s hand sometimes drops the pen. It wanders to his arm, thumb,
and forefinger overlapping around his wrist like a noose. He
squeezes till his knuckles go white. As if the bone could be made
smaller.
As the nights go on, I grow bolder. I begin stealing his work.
You see, Neo and I never exchange any greetings. He never says
thank you, and I never say you’re welcome. Our communication is a
transfer of sustenance and a peek at a sentence or two.
Destruction is addictive , he writes. The more I am, the less I want to
be. The less I am, the lesser I want to become.
That particular line plays with my head. It takes up space.
In a neighboring hall, I pace and ponder it.
Just as I turn on my heel to pace in the other direction, someone
knocks into me. Our chests collide, and a tray loses balance in the
person’s hands, clattering to the floor. It’s a familiar tray. One full of
food I left in Neo’s room a half-hour ago.
Neo stands there for a moment. The plate’s been knocked upside
down, jello cup split, and water spilled. He sighs at the mess.