Broken Compass

It will be okay.

He’ll be okay.

Only how the hell can I know that? How can I guarantee it? It’s out of my hands, now more than ever.

My stomach growls. It’s way past lunch time, and hunger is throwing my thoughts into weird loops, making things look worse than they are. Though how that’s possible, I dunno.

I sit up and attempt to gather my scattered wits. Though Jane is in town, I doubt she cooked anything, so I’d better throw something together and eat before my stomach eats itself out and my head starts acting up.

Halfway out of my room, I hear a noise from the living room and freeze.

Shit. I hate how my muscles tense, and my heart starts hammering again. There was a time when I felt safe in my home.

“Jane?” I call out, keeping my voice steady. “Jane, that you?”

No reply.

I square my shoulders and walk to the living room, when all I want is to back away and go lock myself up in my bedroom. “Who’s there?”

Someone is standing at the kitchen door, and I frown at his blurred outline. He has a bright halo around his head.

I keep going, a hand on the wall for balance, keeping my eyes on him. It’s a man, I know, from his shape, his height and the width of his shoulders, and I’m pretty sure I know who he is.

“Kash?” I ask, stopping again.

Our roommate. Has to be.

Please, God.

“Hey,” he says, so low I barely hear him. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, man, I just…” He turns to glance inside the kitchen, then back at me. “Haven’t had a chance to buy groceries. Thought maybe I could grab a sandwich.”

“Sure, go ahead, dude.” I stop, paste on a cocky smirk. “I was about to do the same.”

He tilts his head to the side, studying me. I look right back at him, hoping my vision will clear and my stomach will settle. “I can make you one, too,” he says, still in that low, careful voice.

The offer catches me off guard. His whole presence keeps catching me off guard. I don’t have any siblings, and I never thought I’d have another guy roughly my age in the apartment.

He is my age, right?

“I’m twenty,” he says as if he can hear my thoughts. At my blank expression, he says, “You asked.”

My shoulders loosen, and I snort, oddly relaxed. “I sure did. And I’ll never say no to food, man. I’m a growing guy.”

He turns into the kitchen, and I follow, realizing that he took my answer to mean that yes, I want him to make me a sandwich, so I take a seat at the table and press my fingers into my temple while his back is turned.

The halo around his head persists, billowing out of his short, blond-streaked hair like a cloud of light. Man, I should have eaten something earlier. Low blood sugar and stress is a fucking bad combo.

His blurry form moves gracefully, as if through a dream, opening drawers, opening the fridge, smearing mayo on the bread, stacking up ham and cheese. Something glints on his face, catching the light, and I remember from last night the piercings in his brows and nose.

“So what brought you to our neighborhood?” I ask when he turns back around and slides a plate with a messy sandwich in front of me. “It’s pretty quiet here.”

My stomach growls again, and I dig into the food, to hell with consequences. If I chuck it up, well at least it won’t be just bile.

“The price was right,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s answering my question about moving here.

Well, into this apartment, at least.

“You’re not from around here, though, are you?” I lick mayo from my hand and squint at him. I remember his face from last night—lean and youthful. He didn’t look twenty, and I can’t place his accent.