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Where Does It Hurt?
The rain beats on your window. I tell you it sounds like the beat of a drum. I mention that you and your drummer boy will get married and have five children. You don’t say a word. You don’t laugh or tell me that you’re actually going to marry Oguri Shun. It’s your line, but you can’t finish it. Instead, you wipe the tears from your cheek and try to smile. You fail.
I tell you that everything will be okay. It’s just life trying to beat you down. I tell you that when you can’t rely on your family, you can rely on me. You tell me that I’m getting to mushy. I tell you to screw yourself. We both laugh.
I try something else. I ask you if you remember that day. I ask if you remember the day I broke down. You tell me that you do. You tell me that it was the first time you realized that I was too sensitive for my own good. I look at you as if you’re crazy, but then I smile. I say that yes, I am too sensitive for my own good. You tell me that you were joking. You tell me that you actually think I’m really strong. I tell you that you’re the strong one.
You tell me that you don’t feel strong right now. I tell you that its okay. With me by your side, we can conquer anything. You tell me that I’m being mushy again. I tell you that I don’t care; that this occasion calls for mushy words. You smile and agree.
You ask me how this will get better. I tell you that it depends on where it hurts. You tell me in the chest area. I laugh and tell you that that’s not possible unless you’re having a heart attack. You ask me where it hurts when I am sad. I tell you that it hurts in my stomach. You burst out laughing. You tell me that that’s even more ridiculous. I tell you its not. You tell me it is. I tell you that this is a stupid conversation. You agree.
It gets quiet. You’re thinking and I’m thinking. Our brains run a mile a minute and then mine stops. I have an idea. A huge smile forms across my face. I tell you I am a brilliant soul. You tell me that that’s hard to believe. I tell you that I have the most awesome, brilliant, magnificent idea in the entire universe. You tell me that my ideas are never usually awesome, brilliant, and magnificent. I tell you that this one is.
You ask me what it is. I tell you to put on a jacket. You look at me like I’ve gone insane. You tell me that if my awesome, brilliant, and magnificent idea is to go outside than I’m the dumbest soul in the universe times infinity. I frown. I give you my puppy dog face. You tell me to stop. I keep doing it, hoping that you will change your mind. You tell me that I have an ugly puppy dog face and that I could make someone cry with it. I tell you that you’re the only one with the puffy, red eyes. You tell me that that was a low blow, but then you put on your jacket. I win.
It’s twelve o’clock at night and we have to be quiet. We keep your lights off. I accidentally bump into your desk and make your alarm clock fall. You tell me that I’m the suckiest partner in crime in the whole world. I tell you its not my fault that I can’t see. I hear you groan. You ask me if I have my glasses on. I tell you that I forgot them. I hear you groan again and mutter something under your breath. I ask you what you had muttered. You tell me nothing. I tell you that I won’t move until you tell me what you had muttered. You push me into the hallway and tell me that my blindness is an inconvenience to our master plan. I tell you that you’re a jerk. You leave me behind.
I whisper your name numerous times until you come back. You grab my hand. You tell me that it’s a miracle I haven’t woken up your parents. We walk through your pitch-dark house until we get to your front door. You open it.
The rain has made the pavement shine under the streetlight and I gasp at the beauty of it. I start to sing the part in a Taylor Swift song where she describes the pavement after it has rained. You tell me that I’m an idiot that has no taste in music. I tell you that we are fearless.
We step into the rain and I start to rethink our master plan. I tell you its too cold to do this. You tell me that it was my idea. I tell you that my ideas are usually stupid. You don’t say anything.
You’re in the middle of the street. I run to join you. I fall. You start to giggle and I get mad at you. I tell you that you’re a buffoon. You tell me that I’m just jealous that you can run in the rain and I can’t. I tell you that maybe I am. You come to me and offer to help me up. I take your hand.
We are in the middle of the street. The rain beats on the cars, the houses, and us. It makes our hair and pajamas wet. We don’t care. I ask you if you feel rebellious. You tell me that I am pathetic because this isn’t even close to being rebellious. I tell you that it is for me.
I ask you if you feel better. You tell me that your chest doesn’t hurt anymore. I tell you that my stomach doesn’t hurt anymore, either. We agree that this master plan is a success. You hold your fist out. I pound it with my fist and we blow it up. You tell me it’s the first time we’ve ever done it perfectly. I tell you that everything is perfect now. You tell me that it is.
You thank me. I tell you it’s my job to be a best friend. You tell me that it’s also your job to be a best friend. We get quiet. I’m thinking and your thinking. Our minds race a mile a minute until yours stops. You look at me and tell me that you have a brilliant, magnificent, and awesome idea. I tell you that you are a copycat. You tell me you are.
I ask you what your idea is. You tell me that we should go on a midnight escapade around Las Vegas. I tell you that it’s past midnight. You tell me that it doesn’t matter. I tell you that it does. You ask me why. I tell you that since it’s past midnight rebellious Brittney has disappeared just like when Cinderella turns back into a maid. You tell me that I’m a freak that’s unnaturally obsessed with Disney princess movies. I tell you that I’m proud of it. We both laugh.
I ask you if you’re still planning on marrying your drummer boy and having five kids. You tell me that Oguri Shun will always be your number one. I am relieved. You’re really okay.