Page 43 of Another Day (Every Day 2)

This is how to poison.

This is how to die.

These aren’t hypotheticals. This isn’t her being dramatic. This is her finding the facts to match the feelings. To end the feelings.

It is all so wrong. I want to shake her. I want to tell her to step away from the funeral.

And there’s the deadline at the end. Practically tomorrow.

A’s been quiet as I’ve been reading. Now I look up at her.

“This is serious,” I say. “I’ve had…thoughts. But nothing like this.”

I’ve been standing this whole time, the notebook in my hand. Now I put it down. And then I put myself down, too. I need to sit down. I place myself on the edge of the bed. A sits down next to me.

“You have to stop her,” I say. I, who am certain of so few things, am certain of this.

“But how can I?” A asks. “And is that really my right? Shouldn’t she decide that for herself?”

This is not what I am expecting A to say. It’s so ridiculous. Offensive.

“So, what?” I say, not bothering to keep the anger out of my voice. “You just let her die? Because you didn’t want to get involved?”

She takes my hand. Tries to calm me down.

“We don’t know for sure that the deadline’s real. This could just be her way of getting rid of the thoughts. Putting them on paper so she doesn’t do them.”

No. That’s an excuse. This is not the time for excuses. I throw it back at her: “But you don’t believe that, do you? You wouldn’t have called me if you believed that.”

She’s silent in response, so I know I’m right.

I look down and see her hand in mine. I let myself feel it, let it mean more than just support.

“This is weird,” I say.

“What?”

I squeeze once, then pull my hand away. “This.”

She doesn’t get it. “What do you mean?”

Even though it’s a different situation, even though we’re in an emergency situation right now, she’s still looking at me that way. I can feel her feeling things for me. I am receiving that.

I try to explain. “It’s not like the other day. I mean, it’s a different hand. You’re different.”

“But I’m not.”

I wish I could believe that was true. “You can’t say that,” I tell her. “Yes, you’re the same person inside. But the outside matters, too.”

“You look the same, no matter what eyes I’m seeing you through. I feel the same.”

If this is possible, what else is possible?

I can’t imagine what it must be like to live like that.

A is asking me to imagine it. I know she (he?) is. But it’s hard.

I go back to her argument about this girl, about not interfering. “You never get involved in the people’s lives?” I ask. “The ones you’re inhabiting.”