Lame traffic earring- part five

His voice was too light, when he said that.

His movements too easy,

his eyes held no shadows of a boy who had to agree to death,

just the annoyance of a teenager finding someone crying in his classroom.

You're not real, I whispered, the light of the perfect sun was suddenly harsh.

You're just another spare part.

He paused then, his easy frown falling flat.

And I knew I had broken the fragile peace of this fake world.

He reached out a hand, tentative now, confused,

and I flinched away, like the touch would burn.

He didn't remember me, but he still had that look,

the look of a boy who wanted a friend.

And I was the only one who knew the price.

We didn't talk about it again, not there.

The days in that perfect world were strange,

full of classes we didn't need to pass

and an afternoon sun that never seemed to move.

We spent a lot of time by the pool,

the water an impossible, flawless blue.

Cleaning it.

As if a fake world could get dirty.

The chore felt real though,

the splash of water, the squeak of the brush.

She was there too, my friend with the daikon ankles,

and I confessed everything to her,

the grief, the killer, the boy made of spare parts,

spilling the true world's mess into this clean one.

And the ghost boy listened, pretending to scrub the tiles,

a quiet shadow in the corner of my eye.

When daikon girl left, the silence changed.

He stopped scrubbing.

The air grew heavy with a truth we both knew,

but only I had been saying out loud.

He looked at the water, clear and endless,

and his voice was different when he spoke,

not the fake, bright sound of the morning,

but something quieter, older, sadder.
I know, he said.
I know it's fake. I just wanted to stay here.
With you, because I know you know me.
Even if I'm not the same as I was.