In my favorite memory, I am alone in a large room with white walls–except for the one in front of me, which is made up of a closet mirror with sliding doors. It forces me to look at myself closely, closer than I’d ever like to, with my underwear sitting unevenly on my hips, and my t-shirt twisted into the right-side elastic of my bra, and the hair at the cowlick of my head tangling into an ugly knot.

I am lying, propped up by my elbow, on an extra bed–also white, with no sheets or pillows–that will be occupied in a few weeks by someone else. There is a single, rectangular window set high into the wall on my left, and I allow the sea breeze and evening sunset to wash over my face.

It’s empty here. There are a few papers scattered on the desk by the door, a charger that snakes out of the outlet and across the floor, and several pairs of sneakers misplaced amidst it all. My bags are piled neatly on top of one another in the corner because I refuse to unpack the clothes and toiletries inside. There is no lamp in the room, but the sun’s warm light does its best to illuminate the space.

I lay suspended in time, listening to the ceaseless soundtrack of waves on sand accompanied by the occasional shout or laugh from passersby outside. It is the most peace I can remember having in my entire life, and I am relishing in the fact that nobody knows I am here.

When I go back home in four days–up north, up the 101 to the 46, to the 41 and to the 5–I am sure I will be faced with a barrage of questions.

I am also sure I’ll respond with lies. It’s a bad habit that gradually became natural to me, like smoking, or picking at the skin around my fingers until they bleed.

My manager will ask me if I had a good vacation with my father’s side of the family, and I’ll indulge her in a few fabled stories of a family reunion that did not take place. My other coworkers will chime in robotically and tell me how happy they are that I took the time off. My fiancee will ask me in between the clicking of his keyboard and the ringing of his phone whether or not the new car drove nicely down south.

But, my mother will press and persist, as mothers do. I will sit on the sofa in her living room that has doubled as a scratching post for her cats while she huffs and puffs, shifting restlessly on the deflated cushions so there is no mistaking her displeasure.

“Why do you go back to college all the time?”

I laugh at her, purposefully misunderstanding to deflect the question.

“I’m not in college anymore, Ma,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Yes, so why go back? It’s been years since you graduated. You’re weird!” She is exasperated by this point, eyeing me over her glasses with a scowl that has been perfected specifically for me.

“Sometimes I miss the place, Ma,” I shrug.

And, that is as close to the truth as I’ll tell anyone.

I am interrupted by the sound of the apartment door groaning open and slamming shut before he slinks in, mumbling an apology for the jarring noise. His pajama pants drag on the ground underneath his slippers, swishing against the hardwood and muffling the sounds of his footsteps as he walks, but his movements are smooth.

I am looking at him upside down from where I lay, so I flop over ungraciously to get a better view.

“It’s the builder’s design,” I console, teasing him. He lets a short laugh escape him as he kicks off his slippers, and it feels like I’ve won the lottery.

“How'd your phone call go?” I always ask, but it’s a formality; he’s excused himself to take many calls in the nine years that I’ve known him, and I’ve never really cared enough to know who was on the other end.

“It was good, but the signal is so bad here whenever I call anyone,” he complains.

I hum in agreement and stretch languidly while he sifts through the few things atop his desk.

“It’s up top,” I offer, knowing what he’s looking for. “Look right in front of you.”

His eyes land on the little bag and he swipes it off the shelf, turning to look at me with gratitude.

“Thanks, I’ll roll you one first.”

He takes off his hat and shakes his hair out loosely before throwing himself onto the other bed–his bed–covered in a thin, blue sheet and no better than the bare one I’m lying on.

I think he looks silly, slumped against one lifeless pillow and twisted into the single plush blanket that he brought, as he rips open the bag and starts to grind the flower into dust.

“Don’t get any in the bed,” I groan, drawing it out for dramatic effect and earning a glare in response.

“S’my bed anyways,” he grumbles, his voice deep and words slurring together. The way he speaks reminds me of the thunder that rolls over the coastline during the winter storms.

“Why am I bothered,” I conceded, “The boys you rent this place out to have probably pissed on these things.”

He bucks at me playfully with his lips pulled back in a sneer, but I don’t flinch. I never do.

We sit in silence as he continues his craft. The mattresses are shoved in the corner of the room, side by side, so he is sitting only five feet away. But, five feet felt far when I was pinned between him and the single plush blanket on his bed only an hour ago.

The sun is setting rapidly and the room is more dark than light, and we both start talking about things that can only come out at night.

We don’t look at each other, not even once. We maintain five feet.

It’s a bad habit that’s become natural at this point, like lying, smoking, or picking at the skin around my fingers until they bleed.

Then, we begin to confess.

“Lately, I keep thinking about how I’m a bad person,” I start, mouth dry before I’ve even had a chance to smoke.

He snorts at me, nodding his head as if he agrees, but it isn’t malicious. He is careful in this process: grinding, packing, rolling, repeating. I let him work in silence.

“Why d'you think that,” he finally asks, lighting the finished product and puffing on it a few times before handing it to me.

“I’m being serious,” I defend, taking it from him and raising it to my lips, inhaling slowly.

“I know you’re being serious,” he consoles, “But, you're still here with me.”

I digest his response with another hit.

His relationship to me is not the root of my “bad-ness”.

But, the reminder that I am, indeed, here with him when I absolutely shouldn't be, fills me with a sick satisfaction. I hide the prideful smile on my face and look away from him, through the window on my left and into the night sky.

“Don’t get a big head,” I start, “You’re just the only person who doesn't mind the way I am,” I persist, passing the blunt back to him and shifting my eyes to the mirror as I wait for him to reply.

The surface of the glass is barely illuminated, but I see my pupils glint hungrily.

He laughs, and I hear him inhale deeply before the smell of smoke permeates the air once again.

“You aren’t bad at all,” he tells me sincerely. I look at him to validate his tone, to ensure that there is no rug to be pulled out from under me.

“But–”

“You’re selfish,” he interrupts, “We both are. But, you aren’t bad.”

I digest this information and his bluntness. So, being selfish doesn't make you bad—but if you are bad, you are probably also selfish. I wasn’t sure whether that made me feel better or worse.

I drop my voice to a whisper, even though this conversation is only meant for the two of us, and nobody knows that we are here.

"So, what's your point?"

He pauses, but I know he isn’t stumped. The smoke between us just gets thicker.

“Well, both of us are going to have to grow up someday," he says. I groan in annoyance.

"Do you honestly believe that?"

My tone is incredulous, and I don't bother to hide it.  He shushes me incessantly, and I quiet myself.

"Of course," he continues, eyeing me warily and hesitating to see if I'll interrupt, "I want to have something for myself, eventually.”

I stare at him for a moment and process this information.  

"So, you think you could actually do it? Settle down?"

I still maintain disbelief in my words, and he shakes his head.  

"It's the right thing to do, you know."

I laugh dryly and inhale once more.

"The right thing to do... For who?"

"When I'm old, and I'm sitting with my drink in the Bahamas looking out at the water, I'm going to want more than just that drink and the view," he asserts, "Wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," I state begrudgingly.

"We're meant to continue," he insists, "To keep producing generations. I can't let the family name die with me."

"I guess so," I return absently, "That just seems like a lot of trust and commitment... And, we both suck at that."  

"Eventually, you'll stop being selfish. We both will. We'll do what we're supposed to do."

I sit up and look at him in disgust to mask the twist in my stomach. He says it definitively, and I hate the idea that one day we could outgrow one another, and that this could inevitably end.

“Well, speak for yourself," I mutter, and return my attention to the blunt.

He shifts to face me directly after some time.

“Someone’s upset,” he wheels. He looks at me and smacks his teeth a few times. 

“You don’t like that we have to grow up,” he confirms for the both of us, cocking his head as if daring me to say otherwise.

 “No, you dickhead,” I gripe, “I don't like... I don't know what I don't like!”

He shrugs, picking up his grinder from the bed and tossing it between his hands.

“Think about it. Maybe if you left me alone, you could actually do something with yourself.”

My patience has retreated minutes ago, and I take one last hit before grinding the remnants of the blunt against his hand and tossing it to the floor.

“You’re not a very good tenant,” he complains, shoving his hand in my face, “You assaulted the property owner, and you left drug paraphernalia on the floor!”

“I’ll pay a fucking fee,” I retort, still thinking about his previous statement. I don’t take offense because he is right.

“You know I’m only kidding,” he concedes, as if reading my mind, “You do all sorts of cool shit.”

“I wish you could be around to see all of the cool shit.”

We are only a foot apart, and I look for any signs that the indifference of his body language has changed.

“Let’s say,” I start, “One day, I decide to stop being selfish, and I won’t see you again, like ever. Do you think that will really happen?”

“I believe it.”

I flinch at the certainty in his tone and pull away from him, but he catches my arm.

“What’s your issue?”

His voice is calm. I let my resolve crumble.

“I don’t want to believe that there will be a time where you and I don’t see one another,” I admit shamefully, leaning my head forward onto his shoulder.

“Guess I shouldn't have bought this place, huh? Come on,” he scoffs playfully, “You know we won’t be able to do this forever.”

I laugh dryly, my remaining patience quickly transforming into frustration. I push myself off of him and scoot backwards on the bed, widening the gap between us.

“No, you’re right,” I start, a hard edge creeping into my tone.

I begin gesticulating wildly between the two of us, “That’s my mistake, I’m sorry, it’s just that eight years has felt like forever. You shouldn’t have bought this place because since all we use it for is sneaking around whenever one of us gets too low and–”

“That’s not what we do either, and you know it–”

“And we lie to everyone in our lives about it, including each other, and make excuses that we do this because we’re just that broken, but we’re not! We’re just bad fucking people! What are we even doing, what do we even do–”

“We make each other better,” he snaps, grabbing my hands and forcing them to still, “Don’t act like you hate what we do. News flash, you were broken and selfish long before you met me! Why do you never own up to your own shit?”

“You first,” I snarl, straining against him, fueled by my own anger and his lack of, “Nine years since the day we met and we’re still just fucking each other like teenagers. You shouldn’t have bought this stupid apartment, you might as well have bought me a ring because it’s nine years later and I’m still fucking here!”

The room is suddenly smaller. There is less space in it than there was when the light was still in the sky, but it’s still just him and me. And, nobody knows we are here.

Normally, this is where the conversation would end. So much said, with so much left to say, and no solution. Except, he surprises me.

“One day,” he sighs, pulling my rigid body towards him and laying back so that I fall on top, “You’ll forget all about me and the years we’ve known each other.”

I give up, bury my head into his chest, and shake my head vigorously, feeling my throat beginning to constrict. He continues.

“You will,” he insists, “You’ve always had better sense than this."

He stops and looks at me, wondering if I’ll interrupt and cut him short. I don’t.

I look up at him and take in his appearance. The five feet between us is long forgotten, so I press my palms against his cheeks to silence him. It doesn’t work.

“You were never a bad person. Do you blame me at all, for anything?”

I think of the nine years of my life spent in the same place–stuck next to him. I think of careers I could have chased, people I could have connected with, love I might have missed out on. My hands slacken on his face, but he holds them where they are while I respond.

“I could never blame you, but you’re really the worst.” There is no more anger in my voice; only defeat.

“Well, it’s not like being with me makes you miserable.”

I laugh in disbelief at his arrogance, but I don’t contest the statement. I don’t contest the truth.

“It might not make me miserable, but do you think any of this is meaningful?”

“This means everything to me,” he says definitively, and there is so much emotion behind it that I try to believe he is being honest, “You’re right, I’m right… Whatever. We’re complicated. Maybe you’ve always been selfish, but for as long as I’ve known you, you have always been incredible.”

In my favorite memory, I am lying on his chest in this open room with all white walls, except for the one that’s in front of us–a large closet mirror with sliding doors. The entire space is washed in black, but our silhouettes are still visible on the surface of the glass, forcing us to look at ourselves tangled together.

“Stop thinking,” he urges me, his voice rooting me to the moment, “We’ll figure it out.”

This is how it always ends. The extra bed against the wall is empty, and the five feet between us have been long forgotten.

In four days, I will drive back home–up north, up the 101 to the 46, to the 41 to the 5–and I will be faced with an onslaught of questions that I am prepared to lie about.

I will repackage this part of myself that is too jagged, too selfish and shameful to fit the mold of my reality. This is another bad habit–as natural as lying, smoking, or picking at the skin around my fingers until they bleed.

He is suddenly closer than I ever remember us being.

For a brief moment, I turn to look behind me, the large mirror forcing me to look at myself closely, closer than I’d ever like to.

There is a suffocating feeling in my chest that tells me the end is near. For now, I escape the idea.

He encourages this sick part of myself, and I take advantage. There is no one else who knows me in the way that I allow him to know me, and that is on purpose.

It is the most peace I can remember having in my entire life, and I am relishing in the fact that nobody knows we are here.