“Ε?σαι τ?λεια, αγ?πη μου,” I tell Vass,
before reaching out to Obi.
He hands me the flowers
and they’re heavier than I expected.
I place them on the bed beside me.
I feel crowded by the orange and yellow flowers
next to my phone, notebook, pencil case,
and the stack of Vass’s books.
“I feel like John Keats,” I say,
“convalescing in Rome.”
A bemused Vass squints
and tilts their head at me.
An unreadable Obi
surveys the bedroom, silently.
Obi looks
dog-eared,
like the corner
of a page
folded down,
on a book
you meant to
come back to
but realize
you’ve lost all
interest in.
I remember
Matt’s hand on my shoulder:
Kai, come back.
Matt’s the one
I come back to.
