I'm Not Okay (I Promise) • Geetrick

15

---Gerard---

My hands squeeze Mikey's, taking everything that I can. Every. Single. Detail. His fingers, once soft, are now calloused from the strong strings of his bass. Rough, detailed, textured skin covering the calloused muscle. His palms are sweaty from either nervousness or work, I can't tell which one but I assume it's a mix of both from the way I know he is. A shy, introvert just like our father once was. My brother's eyes turn from the black flute in front of him to me, the dark orbs made even darker with the sorrow and nostalgia behind them, framed like a picture frame with a rectangle of white. His lips part slightly and he says to me in a voice so quiet that I'm surprised I can hear it over the sounds of the marching band. He whispers out five words which give me hope and begin a slow build of anticipation inside my stomach, "Meet me after the parade."

And with that, his hands leave mine cold and empty as they place themselves right back on the strong strings of the black and white bass before he can get too far out of the song. He continues on with the marching band, passing by several more people but I don't move.

I'm still standing, my hands at my sides on the edge of the street even after he passes because I'm becoming hopeless, the anticipation was only a burst and now, I can only feel the guilt sinking into my veins. What is wrong with me? Why didn't I join him? Why did I let him leave on his own? He needs protection. What is wrong with me? So many questions are flying through my mind in a flurry and it's somewhat overwhelming. Why did I ever stay...?

I feel a sweaty palm on my shoulder but I don't jump. That's why. I stayed to take care of the people I love... I stayed to take care of Mom. I stayed to take care of anyone else who needed me here... Like Patrick...

He's different. He's so much different from the others but I love it about it. I love everything about him. His flaws, his strong points. Even his anxiety. That doesn't mean I don't want him to get over it, though. He needs help, mentally and emotionally... and maybe physically... I notice how he doesn't eat. I notice how he doesn't sit by Pete, Joe, Frank, Brendon, Ryan, and I at lunch. I notice how he usually goes to the bathroom after lunch. I notice how he always covers himself with hoodies. I notice how he always seems so... scared. I want him to feel better. I want to make him feel wanted. I want him to realize how amazing he is. But I think there's something more... Something more than the anxiety and the scars...

I'm scared something is happening at home. He was limping on the way here, he flinched when I pressed him against the locker earlier, he flinches whenever I hold his hand or hug him. I know he cuts and I know he's trying to stop but he's covering more than just his wrists. He's covering emotions and feelings he shouldn't be covering. Bottle them up for too long, and he's going to explode. It's unhealthy.

I wish he liked me in the same way I like him... I have feelings for him and it hurts to know that he probably doesn't for me... He probably never will... He's still figuring out his sexuality and I don't think he'll turn out gay. I don't know why... It just... Things don't usually work out for me and I doubt this will either. But maybe he will and maybe nothing is happening at home and maybe he just has to go to the bathroom after lunch to actually use the bathroom.

And maybe he isn't trying to stop cutting. They're all assumptions...

"That was Mikey, wasn't it?" He asks in his soft voice. I don't reply. I can't reply. The only thing in my mind is his soft, neutral face with a ghost of a smile lining his lips and I can't focus on anything else. Patrick doesn't press it further, instead he takes my shaking hands and brings me back up to the sidewalk where I'm safe from the rest of the parade.

He doesn't speak for a while, I'm just standing, leaning against a telephone pole with tears in my eyes. Patrick is standing in front of me awkwardly, not sure what to do. I don't know how long we're like that before Patrick's voice rings through the air, soft and innocent with a hopeful undertone, "Do you want to go? We can go to the park or find a coffee shop..." He suggests. I only start sobbing more, grateful that he's trying to help me and feeling terrible for being such a burden to him, a poor boy who's stressed enough as it is.