After James // phan

confidential pt. 12

Why did you change your identity? Does Darcy know? Did you remember me when we re-met? Is Darcy in on it? What's Darcy's real name? How do I fit in? Would you have told me if I didn't pester you? Are you fearing for your life? Did I put you in danger?

I stared at that last one for a second. Did I put him in danger? That thought had been plaguing me since he revealed himself to me last night. Did all my searching, my slip-ups, my obsession... did it reveal him?

I was always trying to keep my searching away from James, but he still managed to see... if he could tell I was searching for him, then certainly whoever he was running from would be able to as well. Which meant that whoever was looking for him– which is why I assumed he was hiding out– knew that I had some sort of connection to him. It was far fetched of course, I never googled "is the guy next door to me Dan Howell?" or anything, but I was paranoid anyway.

I slammed the notebook shut, breathing heavy, and set down my pen. It was late, after midnight or maybe even one, but I kept clicking my pen, tapping my foot, thinking.

I told myself that I was satisfied with the lack of information merely a few hours ago. But already, the curiosity was ebbing away at my self control. I glanced over at my laptop.

No. Don't do it. Dan will tell me if he wants me to know... Or maybe he won't. And then what? I'll never know, that's what.

I could kill him.

That thought made me sit upright, and stare straight forward. I could kill him. I quickly cleared my search history again, even though I hadn't searched for "Dan" since the last time I cleared, and then reset my computer, all the while my index finger hovering dangerously over the search icon. Nine letters. Nine letters, and I could end James' life.

I shut my laptop, and climbed into bed. I had work in the morning, and, as much as I'd love to stay up obsessing, I had to get some sleep. Images of my list of questions swam through my head as the ocean of sleep washed over me, warm and tingly. I dreamt of James.

No.

I dreamt of Dan.

I dreamt of the old Dan, the Dan I met a long time ago, the Dan that persisted in my memory. The Dan before whatever had happened had happened, the Dan that I had the biggest crush on.

The Dan I could have sworn liked me.

None of the dream was coherent, none of my dreams ever were. The only thing that was clear was Dan's face. A younger James. A happier James. A carefree James that didn't look over his shoulder every other step.

I so frequently wished my dreams could tell me things. Premonitions of the future or visions of the past. I would give anything for the image of Dan that danced in my head to beckon me to him, showing me something, anything to quench my curiosity and prevent me from needing to ask questions. But dream Dan just pressed his palms flat against my chest and whispered without really saying anything, looking up into my eyes.

That's weird, I thought as he bunched the fabric of my shirt between his fingers. Isn't James taller than me?

Dream Dan was pulling my shirt over my head when my eyes shot open, my heart racing and my palms clammy. I wiped my hands on my sheets and pushed myself up into a seated position, staring into the dark and trying to steady my breathing. His name echoed through my bones in time with my heartbeat.

Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan.

No. James.

I took a deep breath, and the distinct smell of dust and dirty laundry filled my nostrils. The sun was only just barely peeking through my curtains, and, on any normal day, I would go straight back to sleep. But my heart was pounding and my mind reeling, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to close my eyes, even if I wanted to.

I went out for a smoke.

Smoking was something I couldn't knock, as hard as I tried. I knew it was foul and terrible for me, that it was an unnecessary inconvenience and expense, and that everyone around me thought less of me because I did it. I knew all of that. And yet, the addiction lingered in my life like the smoke lingered on my clothes, staining my teeth and rotting my lungs. I should quit. I was still young. I still had loads to live for.

I blew out a hot breath, ash burning in my lungs.

This was my thought process every time I went out for a cigarette. I'd been told I look serene when I smoke, but I was far from it. My body and mind were fighting a losing battle as I stared out along the horizon, eyes focused steady on the long line of red and white light from the early commuter's cars. It was interesting: nothing looked as peaceful up close as it did from far away.

Like James.

As James walked out onto the patio, with no shoes, one sock, and an untucked shirt, his face was passive. He looked at peace, almost tranquil, walking toward me. Except for the fact that his outfit was disheveled and he was missing three items of footwear, I would have thought he was going to come and greet me casually, maybe answer some questions.

But up close, he looked like he had been crying.

"Hey," I whispered, reaching my hand out to him. He allowed me to touch his shoulder, then pull him into a hug, his body rocking with silent sobs. I rubbed my hands along his back, shushing him softly as his cries became audible.

In the light of the early morning, James cried in my arms, tears soaking through the thick cotton of my night shirt and dappling droplets of warmth against my cool skin. He cried and cried, and I didn't ask what was wrong. No, I was practising not asking questions, even if they burned inside me like a wildfire, spreading sparks of electricity and heat along my skin and through my veins. No, I was quiet, but I held on like James was all I had, my tether to reality, my anchor to Earth. I held on like I would float away into the morning sun if I let go. And James did not seem to want to let go.