Page 100 of Angel of Thursdays

“Yeah?” May said.

“She said you find a hiding place and don’t come out because nobody told you the game was over.”

“Anna’s great at metaphors.”

“I know it about you,” Cassiel said, “because I’m the same. You don’t come out until you’re found. The rules.”

“Cassiel—”

“When we weren’t talking, that’s because… I didn’t know what to say to you.” Cassiel was looking at May, had not stopped looking at May. “I didn’t come find you because I reasoned that you needed space. —I was the one who needed space. I didn’t know what it was you needed. Anything I said or did would be inadequate.”

May’s lips felt dry. Inadequate. As if⁠—

Snap. Click. The hair clip again, Cassiel’s fingers twitching.

“I should have said something sooner,” he said. “I should have looked harder.”

May couldn’t say anything for a beat because it felt like the inside of his chest was a balloon someone had just stopped pinching off, all the air rushing back in at once. He took a breath and slid his hand across the surface of the table. After a beat, Cassiel’s came to join it, just the fingertips against the glass, barely touching May’s.

“You hate this place though,” May muttered.

“I don’t,” Cassiel replied.

“You’re going to if you stay any longer,” May insisted, standing up. “Do you wanna—I’ll get Ah-Keung to chop us some siu yuk. We can wait in the alley. It’s got ambiance and we might see a bird.”

Cassiel didn’t protest the move, simply stood and followed. May gave Auntie a sheepish smile as he ushered the civilian through to the kitchen and then to the back door, shouting an order to Ah-Keung over his shoulder.

May dragged out the premium milk crate for Cassiel, which he took for himself after seeing the look in Cassiel’s eye. Cassiel stayed standing, and was still looking at him.

“I wasn’t hiding from you, you know?” May said. “I’m not going to disappear just because you’re not looking at me, or—Ha, fuck, I mean. That’s not the plan. You know what I mean.”

May wrapped his arms around himself, a chill blowing through. He wanted the bomber jacket.

“I’ve been doing some research,” he said. “Meant to tell you earlier but I got distracted. It’s… I think it might be depersonalization-derealization disorder. DPDR. Depersonalization is when you feel like… not a person. Derealization is the world being fake. I think it’s mostly the first.”

He looked up.

Cassiel had not moved. He inhaled sharply, then he said: “I’ve read about it.”

“Oh. So you have been thinking about what’s wrong with me.”

“I can’t not think,” Cassiel said, his brow furrowed. “I started with your description. Dissociation. Then I found some similar accounts. The literature on long-term low-grade DPDR. I read about TBI as a trigger. The comorbidity.”

May’s face grew hot. That was more than he had done, deeper a rabbit hole than May had dared to dive into in his late night scrolling.

“Why didn’t you⁠—”

“I’d already said you should see a doctor once. How did that go?” Cassiel’s voice was tight. “I only know how it works from what you described. I couldn’t know if it was the right word. I can’t not think.”

“Cassiel,” May said. His voice came out scratchy. “I have a brain injury, depression, the attention span of a gnat, and sometimes I forget I’m a real person. What if the doctor says—what if it’s something else? Or what if they tell me a number and—all the king’s horses.”

“What?” Cassiel’s brows were knitted.

“You know, like⁠—”

“All the king’s men. You’re not an egg, May.”

“Okay, but maybe I am an egg.”