Still, his sure presence made him seem big, beyond his sturdy frame—especially as I approached him, feeling cagey from the kaleidoscope of colors that was coiling down my skinny arms.

He flicked his blue eyes momentarily my way when I stopped above him, but didn’t say anything, promptly returning his gaze to the storm. I didn’t linger long on him either, instead circling the crimson cover of his journal, like a big, red self-destruct button asking to be pressed. I was tempted. I imagined slipping it open would be like taking a scalpel to his chest and peeling back the thick skin to find a fleshy, throbbing heart. He would feel exposed, but I knew I’d find it beautiful.

Looking at him then, I could see through his thick wall of muscle to the fragile bones below, but I could also see him stiffen. It was an intrusion, looking inside of him. Just like it would be if I opened his journal.

So I abandoned the thought. I decided instead to plop down beside him in the grass and look up to see what he was seeing—what had pulled his attention away from the journal. The clouds were menacing, ink-black and traumatic.

If I had been sober, they probably would’ve intimidated me. The far-reaching darkness might have left me hollow inside, desolate, lonely even. But with my altered state of mind, I was confident barreling down the violence before me. I believed that the storm was under my control. And even though I didn’t know him yet, I believed myself unstoppable with him by my side. He would save me if I did start to lose control—I was sure.

“What do you see in the clouds, Levi?” he asked me, the comfort of his steady voice reaffirming my assumption that I was safe with him.

My lips fell open in an awed smile. I hadn’t expected him to speak first between us, but I was glad he did. I had been struggling to find the words to articulate my experience.

His question opened me up. “Wow,” I sighed, “a lot. It’s a bit grim isn’t it? Like I thought you were only supposed to see pictures in the clouds when they’re all puffed up and positive. But no, these dark ones are painting pictures extra vivid: a funeral at the zoo where all the animals are in their best suits; a sunflower squirting out seeds for children who refuse to grow; some sexually explicit content between a dog and a crow. You know what I mean.” I shook my head, chuckling. Then I turned to him suddenly. “Do you know what I mean? I’m tripping pretty hard right now.”

“I see it,” he nodded. Then, he closed his eyes serenely.

A warmness flushed through my veins at his affirmation. He could have disregarded my ramblings; he knew I was high. Instead, he listened, and even attempted to understand. I had the urge to roll on top of him and kiss him sloppily on the cheek to show my gratitude, but I knew he’d hate that. Out of respect, I took his lead and closed my eyes too.

We stayed suspended there longer than two other strangers might. I don’t know how long it was. Minutes, hours? Time was the calm before the storm. It was a still pond before the rippling. We were the aimless wandering before a major discovery.

I was extra attuned to the world around me. A low rumbling of thunder rolled across the horizon. The electricity of nearby lightning was raising the hairs on my arms, stippled with goosebumps from a brisk breeze. My tongue was parched and I had to peel it from the roof of my mouth, prepared to thrust it from my cracked lips at the first drop of rain. The fresh honeysuckle scent of his detergent mixed with the stale nicotine-tinge of my own clothes amassed into an oddly syrupy smell.

A thick drop of rain splashed between my eyebrows. I opened my eyes, and the rain had begun. Just a sprinkle at first. Neither of us moved; he kept his eyes closed. But soon, it became a steady downpour.

I laughed in the face of it. It was coming down hard but I was only going up. And the animals at the funeral got out their umbrellas, and the sunflower seeds finally bloomed, and the dog and the crow climaxed. And I still believed I had complete control over everything.

But then I noticed his journal lying in the soggy grass. It was blurry in my sight, obscured by the sheets of water spilling from the clouds, but still a bright red signal reading, Help. Usually it was being poured into; now it was being poured onto.

His eyes were still closed.

“Hey,” I grasped onto his forearm and shook it, trying to get his attention. “Your journal’s being ruined! Your blue ink is probably bleeding all over the place.”

He didn’t stir. “It’s fine,” he said quietly, barely moving his lips. His hair was usually messy on top but the brown strands were now plastered in flat lines to his forehead.

My own long, wavy black locks were hanging in front of my eyes, giving the already dim scene an even darker vignette around the edges. I was crawling outside of my skin at the thought of everything he had hidden behind that leather cover being erased. I waited for him to shed his sturdy exterior, for an unbounded panic to expose itself—for him to bolt upright and cry with me over the soiled pages. It never came.

And finally, I couldn’t contain myself. I threw my body over his, reaching for the journal and flipping desperately through the sodden pages. But it was too late. All that blue ink, all those words, had spread into meaningless stains.

Tears welled up and edged themselves toward my bottom lashes.

“This doesn’t hurt?” I squeaked, feeling my own stomach bottoming out at the loss.

He finally opened his eyes and looked over at me. I was fully crying and he could tell, even though the tears were getting all jumbled up with the rain. Both of us were drenched.

He sat up and sighed. “They’re just words.”

“But what if you can never get them back?” I shook my head in confusion, trying to rationalize the lack of grief he displayed as a physical piece of himself disapeared from existance. I couldn’t. And it made me feel cold.

Earlier, I had wanted to hug him. Now, I wished he would hug me. I knew he wouldn’t.

“It wouldn’t be anything new.” He shrugged. “Anyway it’s not the words but the stories I wish would wash away.” He took the journal gently from my hands and closed it, so that I didn’t have to look at those oceans of indiscernible ink any longer.

But I couldn’t quite let go. “Aren’t you sad about everything you’ve lost?”

He placed his hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t a hug, but still, his handprint was like a center of heat in my freezing body. I was shivering, and my teeth chattered violently.

He stood, his sneakers squelching on the mushy lawn, and extended a hand to help me up. I took it, sniffling.

He led me back to his dorm room, which was pleasantly stuffy—feeling almost like the hug I’d been craving with the way its thick humidity pressed against my stippled skin. But the muted sound of the rain pounding against the window outside kept my paranoid brain from sighing in relief. Instead, I eyed the basic furniture set—identical to my own—suspiciously, as if at any moment it could smear like his pages, only for me to realize l was inside his story all along.

He guided me to the bathroom and sat me down on the toilet seat, handing me a scruffy red towel. I rubbed harshly at my dripping cheeks. Then he gave me some dry clothes to change into. He turned his back while I took off my own.

And then he let me sweat out the next eight hours of my trip in his bed—caught in some dream state between a horrifying past I didn’t recognize, and a tumultuous future I hadn’t yet experienced.

On the other side, I still felt a bit strange, the phantom grief lingering like a weighted blanket against my tingling skin. It was the next day. There were two Ibuprofen and a glass of water on the nightstand, and he was at his desk, writing beneath lamp light. A warmth flushed through my veins at the sight, my pulsing heart lifting to my throat.

I realized he was writing over the blue stains, now dry, with new words. Nothing that had been lost couldn’t be created again.