Best Way Out

07

CHAPTER SEVEN

—

When Victor comes over on Monday, two days after Amirah's heart split into a million pieces as she watched him cry about his ex, she isn't quite sure what to say.

By the looks of it, he's back to normal. Whatever normal means for him, at least— his eyes are only a regular amount of bloodshot, hair still a tousled mess as usual, but less of a nest and more combed through, clothes fresh instead of the scent of vodka-orange lingering on them.

The same can't be said for Amirah, who has unfortunately been rotting away at a pace so rapid that she may as well be a corpse, in the same clothes since Saturday.

Still, she's glad Victor's feeling better. Saturday was scary, and it was sad because Victor was sad.

Amirah, you underestimate just how fucking sad I am.

"So..." Trailing off, she hops onto her sofa that hasn't been dusted in two days. She should get to that at some point. "How are you feeling?"

In less than an instant, Victor's head snaps up from the spot on the floor that he's been staring at. "Jesus, what the fuck?"

"I don't know, it felt appropriate to ask you after you spent the entirety of your Saturday crying in my bedroom!"

"Well." He huffs, shrugging from his position on the ground. This is the first time Amirah has been at a higher altitude than him. Is this what he sees every time he looks at her? The top of her head? "To answer your question, I feel fine. Definitely not as sad as I was when I was hungover, don't want to fling myself off the edge of the earth either."

"Okay, flat-earther."

Victor smiles. Amirah melts. "I also believe that the moon landings were just a conspiracy."

"Of course."

"Anti-vax too."

"Oh, you're just the ultimate Reddit incel, aren't you?"

"I mean, obviously. Couldn't you tell?"

Amirah laughs quietly. Victor laughs even quieter. Silence envelops the room.

It's oddly safe— spending time with Victor, with him just cross-legged on the living room floor or him laying with her in her bed and crying about his ex-boyfriend or him braiding the loose threads of his t-shirt together. Almost a love language, but not quite because it's pure silence; long stretches between laughter and meeting gazes again, the nights of shadowed hands and street lights reflecting back into her bedroom, moments of pure bliss and chewing mouths between a home-cooked meal. Comfortable, safe silences.

With Alice, with anyone, Amirah has always had to talk. She had a reputation of being chatty, talkative, Alice has told her that she would be the one to get them killed in a dangerous situation because she talks so much, but no one has ever understood just how much she wants to not talk sometimes.

When she isn't talking, she's at ease, she's calm. Nobody needs to be distracted from their thoughts, nobody needs someone to carry a conversation, nobody needs to talk to her, her head isn’t so jumbled that she can’t think straight. The sound of wind or rain or rustling leaves or shared breaths is enough for her, is perfect for her.

Alice never understood that. Alice never understood what it meant to love a conversation but hate to talk. Alice never understood her as a person, not really.

Her silence is her being able to disconnect, but still knowing that the world will remain spinning even if she isn't speaking. It's a bit golden, in a way— a fireplace while sipping spearmint tea, sunlight peaking between the gaps of her blackout curtains, the fairy lights in her favourite downtown eatery. The world doesn’t need her. She can rest.