The problem with having Santana as a roommate was all she did was talk about her ex-boyfriend that cheated on her. Usually I'd be all for the trash-talk session, aside from the little fact that I was the girl he cheated with.

It was Friday night and I was sitting on the couch in our apartment, my laptop on my legs, researching medical cases where patients woke up after being in a coma for years. The sites called them miracle cases. One man woke up after four years and he couldn't remember his wife or kids. I was wondering if that would be Katie, waking up with no memory of who I was, when the door opened and Santana walked in.

She made a dramatic show of sniffing the air, then said, "It smells like a pity party in here."

"Fuck off," I grumbled. We made friendly banter now. That was one new thing we did when we weren't kissing the same guy.

"What's the case this time?" she asked, hanging up her jacket then dropping onto the couch beside me. "Man wakes up after a decade and has to re-fall in love with his wife?" She leaned over my shoulder and read the screen.

"How do people even have the strength to wait years for someone to wake up? It seems impossible," I said.

"At least your husband can't cheat on you if he's in a coma."

I shot out my leg and kicked her off the couch. "Not funny," I said, biting down on the insides of my cheeks to stop laughing.

Santana had cut all her hair off last week. The curls that hung down to her waist were gone. Now it ended just under her chin, and she pushed her hair behind her ears as she climbed back onto the couch.

"Why do we miss the people that hurt us?" she asked.

It was weird. I knew she was talking about Truman, but I instantly thought of Katie.

"Don't know," I said. I took one final look at the internet page then closed it.

"And why do we still love them after everything?" Santana continued.

I could have said that it was our fault. That we were to blame for letting people get close enough to hurt us. That falling in love was a waste of time since most people either end up leaving you by choice or get stuck spending the rest of their life in a hospital bed.

I could have said that miracles don't really happen in real life. They're only read about online or in movies, or in a book where sadness can be spun for profit.

But then I looked at Santana and she was making that face again, the one where her eyes were half closed, and I know that if she opened them she'd be crying. And all I saw was a girl who had just cut all her hair off to try to forget; a girl who moved in with me of all people because she had no where else to go. She had every right to hate me, but she didn't.

So instead, I said, "You do know that I'm failing my philosophy class, yeah?" And she laughed, and it was almost like we weren't secretly in love with the same boy that had broken both of us.

Santana grabbed the invite to Ramona's wedding off the coffee table and waved it in front of my face. "Have you decided if you're going to this?" she asked.

The invitation was yellow with flowers around the edges. It smelt like perfume, and I know Mona did that stupid trick where she sprays the paper before putting it in the envelope. The invitation alone was enough to make me not want to go.

"Probably not," I said honestly.

I could go. I had enough money saved up now that Santana was covering most of the rent. I could buy a nice dress and even afford to get Ramona a decent gift. But the thought of being at a wedding made me more nauseous than the smell of her invitation.

"It's an open bar," Santana chimed in. I gave her a look. "Right. You're underage."

She threw the invitation on the floor and we laid in silence. The window was open, and the sound of traffic filled the small space. There was a siren every few minutes, blaring down the street before it disappeared somewhere.

After a while, Santana said, "It's kind of funny, isn't it?"

"What is?" I asked, my eyes drifting close.

"How we're both heartbroken over the same guy."

I felt that familiar rigidness drift through me, the same way it did every time Santana mentioned Truman and the way we felt about him.

"He's not even here," I said, "so we should stop thinking about him."

"I can't," she whispered. Then Santana sat up and grabbed my hands, pulling me upright on the couch. "I think it was my fault." Her words were coming out in a rush, and she was staring at me too seriously. "After the accident, Truman went away to school because I told him to. He didn't want to leave Katie, but I convinced him it was best for him, to get away. Even when he called me at night crying that he wanted to come home, I told him to stay away.

"I thought I was doing what was best for him. You didn't see him after the accident, Eden. He was destroyed. He wouldn't eat. He wouldn't shower. He couldn't even sleep through the night. So I helped him pack and I encouraged him to leave. I was so scared," she cried, gripping my hands, "of what would happen to him if he stayed here. His parents had just lost one child. They couldn't lose Truman too. I couldn't lose him so I told him to leave. It was the only way I could think to help him.

"Is that wrong?" she asked, staring down at the couch. "That I made him leave his family? That I made him leave Katie? Leave you?"

I felt like I was sitting in Art class, watching students swirl the different colours of paint on their palettes. That's what my thoughts felt like as Santana spoke, hundreds of different colours trying to mix together to form one coherent thing.

"I always thought he just left because he wanted to," I said.

"I think he did," Santana said, letting out a long sigh and dropping my hands. "I think he just needed someone to push him, to tell him that it was okay for him to leave. And I did. I pushed him, Eden, I pushed him so far away and now I think I made a mistake, because he's filled with so much guilt for leaving."

"Santana . . ."

She was already off the couch, walking to her bedroom. With her hand on the doorknob, she paused. "I never knew what was best for him. We were together for so long, but I never understood him the way you do," she said. "You never would have sent him away. You would have known that Truman needed to stay here, Eden. You would have known that."

"No," I said. "I don't think I would have."

"I think he's staying at his parent's house if you want to see him," she said before stepping into the bedroom and closing the door behind her.

And I did, I realized. I wanted to see him.

_____

The next morning I borrowed Santana's car and drove. I drove until the skyscrapers turned into houses and the loud traffic was a slow hum. The CN Tower faded in my rearview until it was gone altogether, hidden behind the grey clouds that rolled in overhead.

It took nearly two-hours for me to arrive home. It was nostalgic, driving past my high school and then my parent' house. Seeing the parks I used to play at and the asphalt that always scraped my knees. It was sort of comforting, to feel stuck in the past, transported to a different time. But then the nerves rolled in when I pulled into the Falls' home.

It still looked exactly the same. I don't know why I was surprised, since it had only been six months since I'd been here last. The garages were still yellow, and the path to the front door was lined with perfectly trimmed bushes and rocks with words on them like "believe" and "hope".

The last time I was here, Truman opened the door dressed as an angel. There was a halo on his head, and I could still remember how it reflected the moonlight. And the way he smiled, slowly, when he saw me dressed in red.

The memories were crashing in, and I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and breathed while counting to ten. I shouldn't be so nervous. There was still a chance he wasn't even here. Maybe he chose to hide out somewhere else, somewhere he knew I wouldn't find him.

Or maybe that was why he chose to hide here, because he knew I would.

I knocked twice before the door was pulled open and Truman was standing in front of me. My first thought was that his hair had grown, falling over his eyes before he brushed it back. I don't remember what he said, I don't remember how I breathed, but then we were sitting on his couch and I heard myself saying the word "apologize".

Truman's eyes went wide, and they were the exact colour of the paint we used for Katie's new furniture. Then I was wondering why he needed to replicate the sky when all I had to do was stare into his eyes to find it.

I was waiting for him to ask whatever question had his eyebrows pulling together when he stood up, grabbed my hand and said, "Come," then pulled me after him. We were up the stairs, walking down the hallway to Katie's bedroom. I could smell the fresh paint before the door was even open, and then we were standing in the middle of the universe.

The walls were the shade of blue that the sky turned after it rained and the sun shone down. There were swirls of white spots that I realized were clouds. And the furniture, the pieces we had painted, were here too. I stared at Truman and he was radiant like the sun, staring down at me.

"I'm almost done with it," he said. His voice sounded the same way it did in the warehouse that day, like he was proud of himself. "I need to add a few more clouds to the walls, and let the paint air out. Then I can bring in the rest of the furniture and—Eden, are you crying?"

Was I? I touched my cheeks and he was right, they were wet. I used the sleeves of my sweater to dry the tears, then pushed my hair in front of my shoulders to hide the heat rushing to my cheeks.

"No," I said, awkwardly waving my hand through the air. "I think it's just the paint fumes. Like, the chemicals and stuff."

He smiled. "Right. So, what do you think?"

"It's perfect," I said, because it was the only word that could capture everything I was feeling in that moment.

"This is the best part." Truman grabbed my hand again and pulled me down to the floor, until we were laying on our backs, side-by-side. "Squint your eyes," he said, "like you're staring at the sun." I did as he said, and then I gasped.

Between the haze of my lashes, all I could see was the blue walls surrounding us and the white ceiling. It really did feel like we were staring up at the sky.

"Woah," I breathed.

"Yeah," he said.

Then silence. I think Truman was the one person that I could be with in total silence and still feel like we were communicating.

"So this apology," he began, "should I be expecting a letter?"

I laughed and watched as the sound floated right up into the ceiling, then disappeared behind a cloud.

"Eden," Truman tried again. "Are you going to say something?"

"I don't know," I said. "I can't think right now."

"I can move further away if you want."

"Not because of you." I rolled my eyes when he poked my stomach.

"The paint fumes?" he asked.

"The paint fumes," I said, turning my head to the side to meet his eyes. They were there, waiting, knowing that paint fumes was just a cover for something that was too hard to say.

I felt his pinky touch my wrist first. It was gentle, hesitant. Then his fingers encircled my wrist and the lightest touch was somehow enough.

"You could have told me," I whispered when the silence had stretched on long enough that my voice sounded far away, "that Santana told you to stay away. That she stopped you from coming back."

This time, when I looked at Truman, his eyes were closed and his head was facing the ceiling, but his fingers were still there, on my wrist.

"I yelled at you so many times for leaving Katie," I said.

"I know."

"I think I was really just upset that you left me."

"I know," he said again.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you. For running away that day when you kissed me." I reached out and grabbed Truman's face until his eyes were on mine. "I'm sorry for everything."

"Me too," he said.

I don't remember who moved first, but then our faces were only an inch apart.

"I need you to do one thing for me," Truman said. I nodded. "I need you to break the promise you made Katie. I don't want you to stay away from me, Eden, because I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love with you."

Maybe it was the paint fumes, because my eyes started to water again. And then, out of nowhere, I forgot how to breathe and my fingers were shaking. The room began to spin, and Truman's eyes were like an anchor that tethered me back down.

"Katie's going to kill me," I whispered.

Truman began to laugh, and it only took a second before I joined him.

"I can handle my sister," he said.

Then Truman was kissing me, his fingertips running along my arms and down to my waist. I was wondering how we always seemed to end up hidden beneath a sky when I pulled him closer. It was different this time, to kiss him without feeling like I was doing something wrong. Or like there was still some part of him that wasn't fully mine.

I wished I would have told him that I was falling in love with him too; that I was pretty sure I was already in love with him. Instead, I ran my fingers through his hair, and listened to the way he sighed my name against my mouth.

Truman pulled away to look at me. He was smiling, running his thumb along my cheek.

"I'm living with your ex-girlfriend," I blurted out.

His mouth fell open a little. Then he said, "We'll talk about that later," and pulled me back to him.

_________