When I wake up on January fourth, the awaited melancholy has already gathered onto my chest. Unable to move, I stare at the fracture of sunlight under the blackout blind for so long that when I blink, the shape of it is bruised on the back of my eyelids.

We have an odd ritual, me and grief. I won the war years ago, banishing it to my subconscious from where it can only send missionaries—the control issues, the self-hatred, the fear of abandonment, as diagnosed by Caleb. But once a year, every year, it's given free passage from its exile to torment me with its own hands.

Save for last year when I cut the day short, I always work on the anniversaries. It forces me out of bed—the "you need to work five times as hard" mentality Mamá managed to bludgeon into my brain presenting as a respectable challenger for the grief. This year, when I've arranged for two weeks of holiday that coincide with Cece's, my spine grows roots into the bedsprings.

I've no idea what time it is—I haven't been able to check my phone—but it must be well into the day because the floor creaks for the fourth time as Cece hesitates outside the door. This time he musters the courage to knock. Or it might better be described as a tap.

They ease the door ajar.

Seeing my eyes open, he steps out of the way, whispering summat I can't make out. Esther slides through the crack and jumps onto my bed, sniffing my face before she settles down beside me.

Cece is still fidgeting in the corridor. 'Can I...? Can I come in?'

I try to speak but manage only to nod.

They shuffle inside, lowering themselves to the very edge of my bed where they pick at the plasters on their fingertips. The nicks have healed well enough over the past week but I still make him wear the bandages so they don't scratch the scabs open. And I know from experience that he will scratch the scabs open.

I stop petting Esther to slide my phone from the nightstand. I have a spam of affirmations from Caleb to which I respond with a blue heart so he knows I appreciate it but don't have the energy to respond right now, and only then remember to check the time.

It's past two. You'd've thought my bladder would've shoved me out of bed by now if nowt else.

'Do you...' Cece clears their throat '–feel sad?'

It's like he has an allergic reaction to talking about feelings, his body incapable of staying still. He scratches his wrists the best he can with the plasters, then his neck, finally his scalp. Their spine curls and stacks, curls and stacks. All the while their eyes scuttle around my room in search of an escape route.

Maybe it's just talking about Mamá and Papá that they have an allergic reaction to.

Cece were four when they left. He's been honest that he don't miss them—he never knew them enough to miss them beyond the vague concept of "would be nice to have parents". He even forgot the anniversary last year.

I wish I could forget.

Forget the way Papá would sing—sing all the time: when he cooked, when he drove, when he showered. He sang the Latino rhythms of his youth so passionately that it would transport anyone listening to Villavicencio. Abba was the one exception he made; he could be reading the newspaper and suddenly yodle "thank you for the music, the songs I'm signing".

I wish I could forget the way Mamá looked in her regalia beads and feathers, how she would hold me when she told me stories that I've long since forgotten now, stories about the sky and the trees and the rivers. Her voice was salty as the ocean, a churn of sand always in her throat.

Confession– No... Prayer: I wish I could forget the way living with them felt.

My favourite time of the day was early mornings when they were still asleep and I could watch Sooty & Co. without Mamá turning it off because the voices hurt her ears. When I was five, I borrowed a book from the library with fifty different variations of solitaire and learnt to play all of them. By my next birthday, I had invented my own version. Until I was seven, I'd ramble about what I'd learnt in school that day or whatever had happened in the most recent Goosebumps book only to get a listless "qué bien" in response.

Each sigh carved a little out of me, no more than you would carve nutmeg into a meal, but by the time they left, I was entirely hollow.

I was never angry that they spent so little time with me—I preferred going round to Caleb's anyway. But when Cece finished weaning, they withdrew from him too and that's when I understood there were summat wrong. I can't remember being a toddler, I dunno what they were like then, but our age difference is large enough that Cece's early years are recorded in my memory in perfect detail.

I've spent hours ruminating over it, why they had a second child when parenting clearly was of no interest to them. Did they think maybe I were a blunder only to be disillusioned when Cece was born? Was it an accident? Did they really just wanna pass on their genetics to the next generation?

They were shit parents. It really is better this way. But fuck do I just wish I could scream at them sometimes.

I have no hope that they would apologise or explain themselves, I doubt they'd feel any shame, but at least they would know. At the very least they would know how much hurt they've caused.

'I dunno if sad is the right word for it but... I guess it's as good as any other.'

My voice is itchy and I down the glass of water on my bedside table before blinking Cece's side profile into focus.

'How d'you feel?'

He shrugs. 'I've got more of an emotional bond with the shop assistant at Co-Op who calls me "love" and always asks me what song I've got on.' They grimace at their own directness. Dipping a hand into his hoodie pocket, he pulls out a roll of fabric and holds it out to me without looking. 'I made you this.'

I sit up to unravel it.

It's a linen shirt that they must've got from a charity shop. They've embroidered a print onto it with the same Nicolás fortiflora they drew in the summer, wasps guarding the blooms. Some of them are slightly warped, a couple of petals bent out of shape, revealing their lack of experience. But the thread is barely thicker than what's used for sewing and the pattern is intricately detailed.

'I just thought cause you always get me clothes that I could– fuck.' They yank their hood over their head, palms laid flat over their face. 'It's so stupid.'

'No. This is dead lovely.' I hesitate for a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. 'Thank you.'

'I'm sorry I'm not good at this feeling stuff,' they say, voice muffled in their hands. 'It's not my fault you took all the feeling chromosomes and I were left with nowt.'

Despite the tears rolling down my cheeks, I laugh.

Esther knocks into my arm as she jolts upright. She steps onto my thigh twice with what may be her entire body weight as she turns around on the bed to face Cece. The same moaning revs in her throat.

She nudges them, laying a paw on their leg. Cece's muscles harden under my touch.

I squeeze their shoulder. 'Stay with me.'

Sliding their hands from their face, their stare staggers to mine and I smile. Fear is crusted over his eyes but there are enough cracks that I can get through.

In the dark room, the light from the corridor catches the fuzz on his jaw. The hairs are white and feathery, not your usual teenage facial hair. They're soft under my thumb as I caress his face.

'I love you.'

'I...' He blinks and though his muscles thaw and Esther stops groaning, they hang their head. 'Same. To you. I'm sorry I don't say it more. I promised myself I'd say it more...' 

They did for a while, even if it was mostly via text at the same time every week, clearly with a scheduled reminder. But since the summer, the words have sprouted new chains that anchor them to the base of their stomach.

'You show me.'

'Did you... wanna do summat together or... do you want to sleep?' The words stumble out as Cece does his best to retrace the question the way I've asked it from him.

I ram grief back to the recesses. Cece is leaving for Oak Shaw tomorrow. I'm not spending the day half-present, with my mind squeezed too tight to notice him. If there's one thing I'll never let our parents take from me, it's Cece.

Notes

Qué bien: How nice/that's good.