I Fell in Love with Hope - Lancali

My own grief morphs into tightness in my gut. Neo’s writing is
something precious, even if it isn’t mine. It’s another secret we
share. I read once, on the very corner of one of his pages, Paper is
my heart. Pens are my veins. They return words I stole, blood to
paint a scene.
If that’s true, a cemetery is all that remains of Neo’s heart. It lays in a
pile of rubble on his bedroom floor like the outline of a dead body. He
hasn’t bothered to pick up the pieces. He knows his heart will only
shatter again if he does.
Neo’s father is a taker, and he has nothing material left to steal.
When it’s only him who visits, Neo is never unscathed. The first time,
it’s a bruise, bottle green, and patchy purple. When Eric asks what
happened, Neo says he fell in the bathroom. The second time, it’s
blood, the back of Neo’s head stained with splatter spots. Some of
his hair has fallen out, or, more likely been pulled.
There are other incidents, but we never talk about them.
So, every day, I bring Neo apples. Every day, he eats them to the
core. We watch movies at night. We go to the library in the
afternoons. He says he’s learning French, so I help him when time
allows.
There are days we can do none of those things. There are days pain
lashes at Neo without warning as his body rejects itself, an
aggressive civil war.
There are days I think I’ll lose him. The worst days.
In a particularly bad fit, his skin becomes waxy, sweat lacing the
sheets.
Neo clenches his fists, lying supine, roughing out his breaths.
I scoot my chair closer to his bed during the worst days. My hand
sneaks beside his. I press the back of my fingers to his knuckles. I