Peter Files

Me: I hope Mal's alright

*You left the groupchat*

I put my phone down with a sigh. I'm not sure if this is the last time I'll interact with them, but I hope it is. And if it isn't, I hope they've changed by the time I see them again.

"Newton, put your phone away," Janson warns, walking past me. He teaches criminology and sometimes talks about random theories.

Jorge teaches social theory, which is more fun. We also have research methods, social inequality, cultural sociology, urban sociology, sociology of gender, family, and religion. Urban sociology and demography.

Both of us stare at my empty Word document. "I see you're working hard."

I bite my lip. "Eh, I was about to start."

"What crime and counties did you choose?"

"Drug trafficking. The United States versus Portugal."

"Why?"

"Ehm..." Clearing my throat, I avert my eyes. "Personal experience? Adds dimension, I guess."

He seems to silently judge before nodding. "Get to work."

We're supposed to choose a crime and make a comparative analysis. There's no specific reason for my choice of counties, I just wanted two different contents. Europe is nicer than America anyway. Sometimes, I wish my parents hadn't moved away from the UK, even though I was still a baby when they did that.

"You good, though?" Janson calls.

I frown. I'm not used to him being this nice. "Eh, yeah. Just... saw stuff." It's half of the truth.

Sonya was right when she said I'm hiding drugs in my dresser—when she yelled at me and I fled to the ledge.

Now and then, I take a pill, but not often. Ever since I've 'changed', I haven't taken anything. That doesn't change the fact I have them, though.

This project is rising the desire to take something again. It might've not been the best idea to choose this subject, but it's too late now. The desire has always been there and it won't ever leave.

That's the stupid thing about changing. You can never really change.

No matter what kind of mask you put on, you'll always find hints of yourself. In phrases, in expressions, in thoughts—especially in thoughts—in everything.

You can hide the holes in the walls with pictures or slapping a new coat on the cracks, but they will only ever be gone when you fill them back up, and for me, that's drugs. For others it may be alcohol, anger, habits that will distract them long enough to forget the holes are there. Whatever. You can never fully change.

And even if you do, your mind will constantly remind you of who you used to be. Of what you did. It won't let you change without a punishment, no matter if you're turning into a better person or the other way around.

Anyone who believes it's possible to change in just two months is ridiculous. I haven't changed. I've just made a decision and realized that others should be able to remember little happiness about me.

"Newton," Janson calls from his desk. "Focus."

"Sorry," I murmur. The blank page is bright in front of me, brighter than nothing else. Is it possible to put Word in dark mode? Or are these stupid, brightly-colored assignments meant to represent our 'bright future'? Or maybe I'm spiraling, as if that's new.

✧

Sander cooks dinner and we eat it together in silence. I clean up. He grabs his laptop and starts working on his assignments while I sit in my room and read a book, wondering how they live forever and how the writers come up with the ideas if our brains are supposed to be the same but also not the same, and yet the same.

Why is one a criminal and is the other one not? That's the point of sociology. How does society press you into something? If we'd lock babies up and keep them isolated, they will grow so individually that nothing depends on their surroundings. They won't even know what the word judge means. They'll be so unique—so not affected by anything. And yet it is their mind that chooses if they're a horrible person or a good person, once they're out in the open. And that never changes.

So actually that means that I'm not making any sense because I said it depends on sociology and then concluded it's because of psychology.

Then I get put my book down, get up, and move to one of my favorite places at the college; the music room. I drag my fingers over the piano and hit a guitar's string. I fiddle with the bass before actually playing on the piano and dissecting what the inside looks like. Then I get back up and walk back to the dorm. Sander finally seems to have remembered our interaction last week.

"Can we talk about it now?" He asks from the couch, watching as I hide half of my body behind the kitchen counter.

"Sure."

"Okay, so..." I guess he expected me to say something first, because he's now at a loss of words. "Eh, I guess I don't regret it either? I don't know. It's difficult. I don't think we'll ever be on one line, but that's okay."

True. Lachesis has chosen how long our line is and it is impossible that it's the same. Atropos might cut mine soon, and maybe then Clotho will spin another thread.

"You said you don't regret it, right?" He asks.

I nod, humming, but it feels weird. Something has changed. Probably the realization of my final decision, or maybe just knowing that this isn't right and it will never be.

We are not twin flames, and we are not lost halves according to Pluto—if any of that were true, I would've acknowledged him earlier and he would've fallen for something other than my toxicity.

"So..." he clears his throat. "What now?"

"Tell me what you think. Or want."

He hesitates, and that's enough. We're not made for each other, otherwise we would've agreed to a relationship immediately.

I don't even know if I'm gay or if I'm just attracted to Sander in some ways or if I'm just delusional and think I'm something I'm not.

"I don't know," he admits quietly. "Nothing feels right anymore. We should give it some time."

And that we do.