"Aww, noo," I melt seeing Clay cover his face with both palms, "you did nothing wrong, it's okay."

Maybe that was a lie, but I hear him sniffle and my heart shatters into pieces.

"I'm just exhausted and unhappy," I barely can tell what he's saying cause his words are being blocked by his palms, "nothing makes me happy anymore, I just wanna sleep the whole day!"

I gently push Clay's hands away and see him look at me through wet eyelashes. Before I can say anything, his bottom lips quivers again and he quickly covers his face with the pillow.

This time I don't even try to remove the pillow. I don't want to make him uncomfortable. Instead, I continue running my fingers through his hair so it doesn't stick to his forehead, and hopefully the feeling brings a little comfort to him.

I hear muffled words. Unable to understand what he said, I ask him to repeat. It makes him throw the pillow away and speak again, "I hate this pillow."

Bringing his hands up to his face, Clay wipes the corners of his eyes. But instead of drying them up, it makes more teardrops roll down his temples. I swear, I'm about to cry myself just by looking at him.

"Why?" I'm trying my best to be as comforting and understanding as possible cause I feel like scaring him away is not that hard of a task, but at the same time, I have no idea what I'm doing.

"Because of the way it smells," he whines.

I lean down to my side and get a good whiff. Honestly, it smells nice. Smells like a mixture of our shampoos.

"Yeah?" I guess fewer words are better in this situation.

"You know how you take a shower right before you sleep?" His voice is so hoarse, but it still sounds small because of how he looks.

"Mhm."

"When I sleep with this pillow it smells like your shampoo," he sniffles, "and it smells so much like her, I hate it so fucking much."

My fingers stop moving in his hair as the flashbacks of him burying his face in my hair that one time in his sleep resurface. And the fact that he always hugged this pillow to sleep.. I always found that adorable, but now it's extremely sad to think about.

"It's like I'm so happy when I'm asleep cause in my dreams everything is okay and she's by my side, but then I wake up and I hate her, everything is back to shit and it sucks- it sucks, I hate waking up, I just-"

He has a meltdown right infront of my eyes, taking sharp breaths as the tears stream down his temples. I hesitantly wipe them away, scared to trigger him even more. But from the way he's leaning into my touch feels like he just needed a shoulder to cry on. Or in our case - a lap.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I speak quietly, "I wouldn't sleep with your pillow if I knew."

I could even switch my shampoo or just not sleep in his bed at all, and trust me, I would if I knew how it affected him. I can't imagine living a life where your dreams are so much better than the reality that you get depressed from just waking up.

"Cause it's not your fault that I'm fucking weak," he swallows, "cause you're already crawling out of your skin to tolerate me and I'm making it harder and harder every fucking day cause I just- I just- I don't know what to do! I'm so fucking helpless!"

Clay slaps his hands back to his face, sobbing quietly. All I hear are his jagged breaths. I would never think I'd see him like this. And I'd never think hearing his death wishes for me would be more comforting than seeing him cry. I wish he was sober and I wish he told me how much he hated me.

I take a breath, "It's okay, you're gonna be okay," my fingers go back to his hair cause the strands keep falling down to his eyes, "everything will be okay."

"Nothing will be okay and I'll never get over it." I wonder if one can get dehydrated from crying.

"Hearts break and heal all the time. I know you're going through hell, but just give it some time. I'm here if you ever need someone."

Clay sighs heavily at my words and lets his hands drop from his face. After containing himself, he speaks, "Have you ever experienced something like this? A heartbreak?

I think about his question for a little while and can't seem to come up with an answer. The ones I experienced are not even close to what he's going through. So I guess it's not fair to say yes.

"I've never loved so I don't know, I guess not," all of my relationships were circuses and I was the clown in them.

"Do you think I will ever love again?" Clay's question breaks my heart. I don't have an answer to it, but he's craving affirmations, "Or at least get over it?"

"Absolutely."

When I thought my heart couldn't ache for him more than that, he looks at me with his green teary eyes, "You promise?"

Even though there is nothing I can do to affect the situation, let alone promise him anything, I still nod, "I promise."

When he finally calms down, I bring the water bottle close to his lips and it makes him take a sip involuntarily. The sip turns into gulps that take down half of the bottle. I knew he'd be thirsty after all that alcohol and tears.

The room falls silent for a few minutes. His eyes are open, my fingers are still in his hair and all there's left from his tears are the stains resembling a little path leading up to his eyes. And for another half an hour, I try to talk to him about the stuff he's passionate about. I'm hoping to take his mind off the things that are worrying him, but with every passing minute, he becomes less and less responsive.

"Do you usually throw up when you're drunk?" I ask, noticing that his eyes are getting heavier and he has no energy left in his body.

"I rarely drink," he mumbles, "I guess not."

From the amount of alcohol it took for him to get to this state I was sure he had built a tolerance from drinking occasionally. But I guess it has to do something with genetics. He's just built different.

"Do you wanna sleep then?" The only reason he's still up is because I was forcing him to talk to me and drink water.

"Can I tell you something first?" He forces the words out. I think his brain is already asleep.

"Of course," I smile. His eyes are barely even open, and I feel his head getting heavier on my thighs.

"Thank you for doing so much for me," he tries to swallow the lump away in his throat away, thinking it'll open a path for the words to come out easier, "and I'm sorry for not doing the same for you."

I want to tell him that all I did was be by his side when he was drunk. I want to ask him what is there that he felt like he could do for me and didn't. There were many things I wanted to know, but just as I find a way to phrase it, his shallow breaths turn into deep ones.

Clay falls asleep. And he looks so much more peaceful hugging my thigh instead of the pillow.