Page 37 of Someone Like You

It was an honest answer, maybe even too honest, like it always was when it was Ian asking. This man annihilated Phil’s pathological fear of appearing weak and pathetic. It should have been the contrary, by logical comparison, but even now that Phil felt so pitiful and brittle, Ian was looking at him with nothing but respect.

“What if you’re alone when it happens?”

“I try to find something — an external stimulation to latch onto, like a repetitive sound, or holding something very hot or very cold, and grit my teeth until it passes.”

Ian drank some milk, then started lowering the glass, but reconsidered and downed the rest of it. He seemed nervous.

“Did I do the right thing?” he asked, setting the glass down like it weighed a ton. “Trying to get you to talk?”

“Yes,” Phil reassured him. If someone had told him Ian could look this timid, he would have never believed them. “Yes, that actually helped.A lot. Your voice and the… the scrape of your beard…” Phil swallowed, because he could still feel it, as vividly as if it’d been just seconds ago. “It was… very grounding.”

A sudden flash of blue irises cut right through him, and Phil couldn’t comprehend how a gaze could be so fierce and so tender at the same time.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

There was anger mixed with Ian’s worry. Maybe not real anger. A sentiment close to it but tinged with blue rather than red. Phil struggled to maintain eye contact. He couldn’t bear to look at him. Every time he did, thesomethinghe felt for Ian grew larger and deeper and he didn’t know where to put all thatfeeling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. If he’d had a penny for every time he’d said that in the last two years, he could’ve paid for another bike.

Sorry.

All he could do was besorry.

‘Sorry, I can’t get out of bed today.’

‘Sorry, I’ve lost all inspiration to write.’

‘Sorry, I don’t feel like eating.’

‘Sorry, leaving the house is overwhelming.’

‘Sorry, I can’t stand the sound of your voice today.’

He’d be bones and dust one day and that was all the world would remember of him:‘Here lies P. J. Hanson. He wasSORRY.’

“Don’t do that.”Nowthe blue emotion in Ian’s voice was flaring red. “Don’t apologise for being human. I just meant—”

“That youcare?” Phil broke into a small smile. “You think I didn’t know?”

“Can’t hurt to hear it, can it?”

Oh, it could.

Itdid.

Phil’s bleeding heart was allhurt. Beautiful things could be hurtful, too. He’d been empty for too long and now he was suddenly sofullhe was afraid he couldn’t take it. From feeling nothing to feeling too much, he hadn’t had the time to adjust. Every time he thought he’d figured out what he was feeling, a new shade or a new flavour showed up, rearranging the picture, and he had to start over again.

Ian, the rude stranger.

Ian, the rude, charming stranger.

Ian, the charming, witty stranger.

Ian, the friend.

Ian, the guy who’d torn apart all of Phil’s walls, ever so gently, and used the debris to build him a shelter.

A knot tied Phil’s stomach. He glanced up at Ian, terrified that he was thinking too loud, but Ian was just checking texts on his phone, unaware of the turmoil he was causing. There was a deep crease between his thick eyebrows.

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