it’s a rule, you said.

—say something true.
—define true.
—anything that would get us in trouble if M overheard.

(the bell has already gone quiet. the dorm smells like detergent and rain. your socks are drying on the heater. there is a bravery in the way you take up space that makes me want to be smaller and louder at once.)

—what are you collecting truths for? i don’t have any anyway.
—that’s impossible. everyone keeps a few.

(you have the kind of face teachers trust. i know the exact angle your mouth takes when you’re about to lie for me. i would recognize your footsteps on gravel, in the warm rajasthan sand, in the dark corridor after lights-out.)

—fine. here’s one: i’m not steady.
—not steady how?

(empty beds on visiting weekends. no place next to you on the mess table. you leave first always. it’s a rule, you said. it’s not conscious, you admitted or rather, you lied. the future like a long hallway with portraits that watch. and you are terrifying. because you could leave without meaning to. i’m more frightened of the day you stop looking for me than of the day everything ends.)

—another.
—you first.

(i know how you braid your hair when you’re thinking. the map of freckles on your shoulder. the way you pretend the rules are flexible because they usually are — for you. if the world were a test, you’d pass without studying but i? i study you.)

—i want to be important to someone.
—you already are.

(the windows rattle. the campus sleeps. someday there will be a line i cross, or you will, and the crossing will have a name we can’t pronounce yet. it will hurt. not tonight.)

—what are we?
—bad at definitions, i guess.

(we lean close enough to share breath, far enough to keep our futures intact. whether this is friendship or something louder doesn’t matter. it’s enough to be awake together, counting time by the sound of our names.)