Page 82

July 28, 2020

3:00 a.m.

Death-Cast still cannot call me, and thankfully they did not call Paz tonight.

I’ve been holding Paz for over four hours as he’s been recovering from that documentary. He’s cried, grieving the life he

should’ve had. He’s fought me to go hurt himself, but I never let go. And he’s fallen into deep silences to the point where

I thought he fell asleep, but he’s awake. He’s just haunted by his past. I know that feeling well. Would Paz have it in his

heart to comfort me if I share the secret I plan on taking to the grave? What’s even more upsetting to wonder is if Paz will

take himself to the grave first.

“My End Day is coming up,” Paz whispers.

“No one knows their End Day in advance,” I say. I never have, and I definitely don’t now.

“This Friday. July thirty-first. The day I killed Dad is when I’m destined to kill myself.”

“You’re not destined to take your own life, Paz.”

“I am. That’s why Death-Cast hasn’t called. It wasn’t my time yet.”

“Now isn’t your time either. We’re living to one hundred, remember?”

“I’m not strong enough to keep surviving, .”

“We’re building your strength. You’ll be starting DBT and—”

“No, I...” Paz sobs, his body caving in. “I feel like a liar when I talk about the future.”

Somehow, I’m even more scared of Paz taking his life than I was when we were on the Hollywood Sign. He has it in his head

that he’s supposed to die on the anniversary of his father’s death. This feeling of doom is certainly a reaction caused by

his borderline personality disorder. He’s committed to dialectical behavior therapy, but that isn’t an overnight solution.

That’s a six-month program and many patients require multiple cycles before they trust themselves. I’m nervous to remind Paz

of this, knowing that the lack of an instant cure is one of the reasons he was giving up that night we met. Even if Paz cries

for the rest of the night and wakes up tomorrow in a better mood and something goes wrong, he’ll take it as a sign that he’s

supposed to die on Friday, when I won’t be here to stop him. To save him.

I refuse to let the only future Paz believes in be one where he kills himself.

“I’m not going back to New York,” I say.

Paz freezes. “Don’t say something like that, you’ve got your gala—”

“That’s my father’s gala. He has to be there for Death-Cast, and I have to be here to prove that you have a future beyond Friday.”

“You don’t have to do that, it’s better if you move on now—”

“There is no moving on if you die, Paz, and I won’t lose you to a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Paz rolls around in my arms to face me with his teary eyes. “I’m sorry I said you were dead to me.”

I hold his face to my chest and let him cry. “You’re forgiven as long as you never become dead to me.”

My staying is the only way to ensure Paz’s survival. And my own.