Bear

You've always been cold around your friends. Not distant out of pride, no — distant for survival.

Since your mother left and your father was taken behind the bars of a prison that was too gray, too oppressive, you hadn't learned to stand any other way than by gritting your teeth. You only had them. The two of them. And suddenly, no one else.

At night, your nightmares had taken over completely.
They entered without knocking.

You would wake up in a sweat, your heart pounding so hard you thought it would burst out of your chest. So you drank. To silence the images. To slow down the world. To stop thinking. But the more you drank, the more your mind unraveled.

Your friends could see you were sinking. That your gaze was becoming vacant. That your laughter, once rare but genuine, had vanished. They said nothing in front of you. You hated pity. So they searched behind your back. They called, insisted, rummaged through memories and erased addresses.

And miraculously — or perhaps through love — they found her. She agreed to see you again.

Meanwhile, you were at home. Slumped on the sofa, curtains drawn. The smell of stale beer hung in the air. Empty bottles rolled across the floor. The television hummed on, but you weren't really watching it. Your eyes were red. Your hair was a mess. Your shirt was wrinkled. When the door opened, you turned your head, annoyed, ready to snarl.

You saw your friends. And behind them—Her. You thought you were hallucinating. Your breath caught in your throat.
The room seemed to wobble.

Everything you saw was her. Her hair a little shorter. Her face marked by time and absence. But it was her. Your mother.

Without thinking, you stood up so abruptly you almost tripped. You rushed towards her as if she would vanish if you didn't touch her. As if the world would steal her from you again. You clung to her.

Your fingers gripped his coat. Your forehead buried itself against his shoulder. You were trembling.