Having the house to himself, Mitch relished in the rare absence of housemates. Those still moments, where the only company present involved the occasional appearance by Estrella, made it easy for him to hear himself think. Taking Ann’s advice, he bought a composition notebook and started journaling for the first time in over 5 years. Something about physically putting pen to paper was cathartic, and to be able to do it without risk of interruption allowed him to delve into some stream of consciousness exercises.

After finishing with writing, he tucked the notebook away into the small dresser that Jodie let him borrow while they shared a room, arranging then rearranging several pairs of jeans to further obfuscate the makeshift journal. Though the risk of discovery about was low, the idea of anyone accidentally stumbling across it brought about paranoia. God forbid someone read the blurbs about numbness and dysmorphia and intrusive thoughts; despite the constantly present ideation, he never engaged in any acts of deliberate self harm. An intervention or affirmations from the people closest to him, or being told that he was valid, may be enough to push him over that brink.

However, the bulk of his musings recently trended in a positive direction. Something about returning to one former interest led him to considering others. Straddled between an abundance of caution and a possession of raw energy, he weighed options over which outlet to pursue. Lately, thoughts drifted towards music, and about the guitar that Avi borrowed. He momentarily considered going into Avi’s room, grabbing and then returning it before anyone came home, but the violation of trust didn’t sit well with him.

He sent a text to request for permission to retrieve it, and the response was almost immediate. ‘Of course!’ Avi replied, and followed up with a lengthy apology about forgetting to return it. Mitch shook his head, and a smile crept up as he envisioned Avi’s flustered expression while he typed up his novel.

Hand on the doorknob to Avi’s room, Mitch struggled with the hesitancy to turn it and cross over the threshold, then berated himself for overanalyzing every single decision. “This is why you spent so long in a dead end relationship,” he muttered and opened the door. Despite having permission to be in there, it still felt wrong.

He’d never seen Avi’s room, but it was about what he envisioned: tidy and modest. It was the smallest bedroom in the house, more of an office and not intended for full time occupancy, but Avi’s possessions were modest to begin with and he never once complained about the size. A tiny writing desk was wedged between a bureau and a narrow bookshelf with several title belts on its shelves. On the wall above it was a cork board with a printout of his schedule, along with a few photographs and some pieces of fanart. At the back of the room was a single window, with a garland of Nepali prayer flags strung up above the sill, and the guitar sat propped below.

As Mitch seized the neck, something on the nightstand caught his eye: the 7″ Backstreet Boys single. He dropped the guitar, and it landed with a hollow thunk and a metallic clanging that reverberated.

Seeing the vinyl should not have knocked the wind from him, but it did, and he sat on top of the neatly made bed as his mind reeled. Aside from some loose change and a few crumpled receipts, the nightstand was otherwise barren. No pictures of Charlie or of his family, although those were contained to the cork board, since Avi was meticulous about organization.

Mitch lacked insight, because the items that lived on his nightstand were only the essentials, such as his phone and a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Maybe a vape pen, if he hadn’t lost it.

Inadvertently, he clutched the blue gingham duvet cover and kneaded it between his fingers while making a poor attempt at troubleshooting an issue that wasn’t any of his business. “Oh, fuck!” he shouted when he came to, and tried to smooth out the creases in the fabric. Before thinking better of it, he brought his hand to his chin and furiously rubbed the stubble to try to calm down, a tic that he struggled with during periods of distress. It backfired when he caught a whiff of spearmint and that organic basil scented fabric softener that was obviously Avi’s, since no one else in the house bought the brand he preferred.

Half hard and agitated, Mitch launched himself from off of the bed. He grabbed his guitar, bolted out of the room, and almost collided with the wall in the hallway. Struggling to breathe, he hurried down the stairs and rushed out the back door, gulping for fresh air as soon as he was outside.