Everything I Never Say ✓

[ seven ]

Seven

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You had to give up your room for me.

It wasn't that there was no other room available in the Harrington house—of course there was—but your room was the closest to your parents' and they wanted me there.

It was most probably Vivian's idea. I was sometimes awake when she slipped into my room late at night to check on me. And if I wasn't awake and stuck somewhere between consciousness and sleep, I'd have this gut feeling of her being around, somewhere close.

There were times when I'd fallen asleep really hard that I didn't hear her come in at all, but in the morning when I woke, there would always be some sign she'd been in my room to check up on me—like a glass of water on the bedside table, or an extra layer of blanket if rain had started pouring down in the middle of the night, or even a flashlight by my pillow if it suddenly started thundering and there was a chance of a power cut.

I was surprised you didn't make a fuss or throw a tantrum at having to move into another room. Then again, you probably understood what was happening too, and didn't want to make it any harder on me. It kind of touched my heart, that.

Because I knew how much you valued your room and your bathroom; they were your comfort zone, your safe haven. But you gave it up for my comfort, for my convenience.

You were this spoilt little boy with loaded parents who almost always got his way and all that he wanted—but you didn't so much as blink an eye that time. Thank you for that. I realise now I never got to say those two words to you.

Then again, realisations come a little too late don't they?

I remember this one time, it was at least six or seven months past my official adoption into your family. Things were just beginning to feel a little normal—and this sometimes upsets me now, because six or seven months doesn't seem long enough to get over mourning the loss of my parents—but I've learnt to come to terms with the fact that I was still a kid then, and I didn't have that deep an idea of loss as an older person would. I go softer on myself now; I try not being too harsh on my past mistakes.

I had emerged out of my room—your old room—and descended the stairs to the living room, where you were lying sprawled out on the sofa.

That time, it placed a small smile on my face, rather than that spark of annoyance I felt at my home. Old home. With my real parents. Remember? That day when I came from school and found you there?

"Are you going to watch something?" I asked, sweeping my eyes over the DVD cases scattered around that small circular table between the sofa and the television.

"Yeah," you answered flippantly. Always so bloody nonchalant. And then the annoyance was back, just like that.

You always threw your answers over your shoulder, so casually, as if you were tossing out confetti in a party you never wanted to be in. No passion in your words, no enthusiasm. I could never tell what the hell you were feeling. God, it drove me up the wall at times.

"What is it?" I asked anyway. Why did I ask? Most probably because I needed to speak to you—have some sort of communication with you. Again, why?

Oh, because, Daniel, I couldn't then and still can't now stay within distance that puts you in my line of sight and not attempt to have you look at me.

But you never had and still never have any interest nor reason to let your eyes stray to mine, and the only way for me to have you pay even the slightest attention to me, was to have you talk.

And even then, you hardly ever made eye contact. I'd ask, and you'd respond—with that same old flippant, nonchalant attitude of yours.

"Spiderman, I think," you responded. I wonder if you have watched the Andrew Garfield and Tom Holland versions of it. Of course, these versions weren't even out back then.

"Can we... Can we watch one of the Beethoven movies instead?" I asked. I was obsessed with those save-the-family-dog movies back then. I've never been a dog person, but those movies I cherished for some odd reason.

You thought they were dumb, of course.

"What? No," you scoffed, unnecessarily dragging out the no. "Those movies are stupid."

My heart sank, but I let it go. If the movie you chose made you happy, then I didn't really mind going ahead with that.

I skipped down the rest of the steps and then sat down on the other end of the sofa, curling in on myself so that there was a good distance between your outstretched feet and me.

I didn't understand then, why I wanted distance between us. I shouldn't have wanted to put distance between us, Daniel. I was eight. Goddamn eight years old. Almost nine. A kid. A godforsaken kid.

It should be wrong for me to feel that way at that age. I feel guilty even now. Not guilty. Wait. Ashamed? Ashamed, yes. Stupid. Pathetic even.

I'm too scared to tell anyone even now, Daniel. They'd think I'm bluffing, won't they? They'd laugh it off. They'd tell me that I couldn't have possibly started falling for you at such a young age. So much about my feelings for you was wrong. Is wrong.

Even now, I keep it to myself.

I think I must have lost myself to my thoughts—I used to do that a lot back when I was a kid, even more so than I do now—because when I looked up at the TV screen once I heard the sounds coming from it and realising the movie had started playing, I found myself watching Beethoven. The 1992 version. My favourite.

I looked at you then. But your eyes were on the television screen, remote in the hand that was dangling off the side of the sofa. There was no emotion on your face, just that same old nonchalance as usual.

You should have played Spiderman, Daniel.

You shouldn't have gone ahead with what I wanted.

You shouldn't have played a cheesy family dog movie that you found absolutely stupid and dumb, and had no tolerance for, just because I wanted it.

You shouldn't have done that, Daniel. You really shouldn't have.

The cracks were becoming too many now.

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