Misery Without Company

I take a deep breath. Then I ask, “What’s your deal, Nico? Why don’t you participate in school? Why don’t you talk to anyone?”

His eyebrows shoot up for a moment before dropping back down into a distrusting stare. “You asked me that before,” he says dryly. “And I’m talking to you right now.”

“What you’re doing is avoiding my questions.”

“I’m doing both.”

I sigh. “Fine. Then why are you failing? You seem perfectly capable of understanding the material. I mean, you could probably pass the test now if you’d just show up. So… what? Are you failing for attention or something?”

His face shifts from wary to outraged in a split second. Uh oh. Shouldn’t have said that. “What?!” he growls, stomping over to me. I jump, then shrink as he leans over me in my bed, his lip curling into a scowl. “That’s what you think? Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’d fail all my classes just to try to talk to you. I’m not that pathetic. I know when I’m out of my league—and I only told you because you asked!”

I blink at him, tilting my head back slightly to put some distance between us. “I don’t think you’re pathetic at all,” I say quietly. I had started to think true, unbridled anger wasn’t really his thing—that he was all apathy and biting words. But I was wrong. I didn’t just strike a nerve here; I swung at one with an axe.

Still, what I said was true. I’ve never thought of him as pathetic. Strange, sure. Kind of unnerving, definitely. A terrible student? Absolutely. But pathetic? Never. It’s not healthy to think of other people as pathetic, and I don’t think it of anyone.

And what was that bit about me being “out of his league”? Is that what he thinks of himself? Of me?

His anger fades as quickly as it arrived. In fact, he almost seems embarrassed by it. Grumbling quietly, he turns away from me and takes slow, heavy breaths that wrack his body as he faces the wall. “I don’t care about school because none of it matters,” he mutters finally. “And yes, before you ask, I do go to my weekly therapy sessions. But knowing how to think about life doesn’t mean it’s suddenly full of meaning. And just because someone says I should be happy and tells me how to do it, doesn’t mean it just… sinks in. That I can just… be happy.” He starts to pace. “What’s it matter anyway? You get good grades, you get into a good college, you get a good job, and then… what? You die the same as anyone else, and then none of it ever really mattered in the first place because it’s all just gone.”

Oh. So it’s like that.

I look down at my hands. It’s not like this is a new sentiment to me, or anyone really—it’s a pretty common topic for Universal therapists to cover. Especially during the teenage years. But I’ve never met someone so committed to it.

“That’s a pretty harsh view of life, don’t you think?”

He presses his hands together, staring down at his shaking fingers. “It is.”

“What does your therapist say about it?”

“That ‘this too shall pass,’” he says mockingly. “What if it shouldn’t pass? What if it’s the only real thought anyone ever has around here?” He blinks as he hears himself and shakes his head. “Nevermind. I sound like an overdramatic idiot.” Then he walks over and sits down on the bed beside me, his eyes locked on his own interlaced hands in his lap. The bed doesn’t dip as he sits—he’s still just a holo—but I find myself wishing I could reach out and put my hand on his shoulder.

Because I know what that feels like. Even if only a little bit.

He continues, “The most real thing I’ve ever felt is that, no matter how good life supposedly is, I still just don’t like it.” He turns to me now, finally, his stony expression hiding a twinge of something frantic. “I want to like it, Petra. I know I have every reason to be happy. I know my history, I know how bad things could be, how lucky I am. But I don’t feel lucky. I don’t feel good. And I don’t feel happy. I don’t know why I don’t feel happy.”

I try to smile at him, but it’s faint.

“Then there’s you,” he murmurs, his blue eyes searching mine. “I heard you talking about your father once.” I stiffen, but he raises his hands innocently. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Really, I didn’t. You were outside the school, around the corner, and I heard your voice. I recognized it. You were leaving a voicemail, I think, asking your dad to call you back. No, begging him to. And I understood that so much. The… the desperation in your voice. The sadness. I realized we had something in common, and it made me feel less alone—even though it was a moment I never should have heard. It broke my heart and, maybe in some twisted way, healed a bit of it to know I wasn’t the only one who felt things like that. Who felt panic and sadness. Something… deeper and more painful. But then in class, you were always completely fine. You didn’t let it ruin you. You just kept going. If anything, it seemed to make you want to be better. I’m jealous of that, Petra. You don’t let things break you.”

My mouth has been hanging open this whole time. I only realize it now as I shut it. “I… don’t remember that,” I whisper. I really don’t. Nico has this whole, nearly complete picture of me, and I… I know nothing about him. Not really. But I think he wants to tell me. “What happened to your parents?” I ask.

His jaw tightens, and the dam that broke open earlier seals up again. He answers shortly, “What do you mean? They died.”

I shake my head slightly. “But… how?”

A series of emotions flash across his face like a supercut of scenes from a movie. Fear, sorrow, thoughtfulness, pain, love—and he stares at me like he can’t believe I’m even asking. For a second, he seems younger than he is, his eyes glistening with pained tears like those of a lost little kid. Then it’s gone. The sadness is swept away, and his gaze hardens once more. “Do you really want to know?” he asks.

I nod. Then his hand passes over his wrist, pulling us both into his server. The world around us changes, and before my eyes even adjust to the dark, the soft grass under my feet tells me immediately that we’re outside somewhere. As I blink into focus, I see the sparkling stars in the night sky, the curve of the Earth in the distance, and I realize immediately that we’re back in Public Atmosphere 1—in almost the exact spot where Nico had been sitting before, tapping at the purpling forcefield.

But things are different. The buildings are fewer, younger, brighter, even in the black of night. The cacti I’d seen before are smaller, still growing to their full height. And when I look behind us, I can see that some of the other public atmospheres in the distance are still under construction, a handful of still half-empty domes filled with piles of wood, stacked bricks, and mounds of dark soil.

It’s quiet. So quiet I can hear my own breath, my own heartbeat—a stuttering, off-beat thudding in my chest.

We’ve moved back in time. That much is clear.

He’s showing me one of his recorded memories.