Description
"I know you're special," he says. "We're all special." His hand rests on mine, but I jerk it away. Whether I do that from gay panic or just general uncomfortableness, I'm not quite sure. He nods as if he's learned his lesson. I turn my head back to the sky, "If you're so sure about it, then what makes me special? Hm?" A long, awkward silence follows after that. I'm sure that he's got nothing to say since he knows I'm right. He seems to think it through for a while. "Space dust," he finally says. "We're all made of space dust, and I think that's what makes us all different...in our own little, special ways." I look him up and down for a moment, trying to comprehend a response to whatever hippie, spacey bullshit he's trying to make me believe. Again. He's really got that space-themed analogy, and I'm unsure of how to feel about it. "You know, if we're going by space metaphors," I lean in really close, our faces just inches apart. It makes the both of us feel uncomfortable. The way his face is turning red shows just how uncomfortable he is. "I think I'm made more of dark matter." - disclaimer: this story deals with heavy / sensitive / potentially triggering topics such as depression, suicidal thoughts, self-harm and mentions of suicide attempts. read at your own risk.
prologue
