Singing to myself in the pouring rain, I keep walking, though I feel the chill soaking in to me. Water drips off my bangs onto my face, mingling with the tears, and I pull the saturated flannel closer tight as I hug my arms around me, but I can’t stop the shaking.

It’s so cold, but I keep walking. I’m not going in yet. The rain is too pure. It’s beautiful, and the falling rain cleanses me.

I look up at the cloudy sky; no stars are visible behind that dark covering. But the raindrops sparkle in the cold blue streetlights, stars falling to the earth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I sing. But he can’t hear me. He’ll never know. He’ll never know any of it. How could he? He’d only know how much I think about it, how sorry I am, what I think about it – he could only know if I told him. But I’ll never tell him. Ha, that’s what I said last time, but that just didn’t happen, now did it? Ach, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what he thinks. He’s angry with me. I know that. I don’t know if it’s reasonable or not because I don’t know why. He thinks he told me, but it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know. He won’t actually tell me why he’s mad. It’s all symbolism and unclear, double-triple-multi-more meanings, layers that I can’t sift through. He never responded to that last time I told him what I decided I wouldn’t, and that was in response to his non-specific response to the bad idea I’d had previously.

But I mean, come on. I open up, and I tell him more than I ever meant to. I didn’t argue with him, I agreed with him. And he doesn’t respond. And I know he saw it. Facebook reveals all. And then he makes that public comment on forgiveness. It’s addressed to me, and I know he means something by it. But he speaks in generalities because it’s for the whole group to see. Why won’t he just actually talk to me? Why won’t he tell me? I can’t apologize when I don’t know what for. The comment was pointed, but I don’t know what he was referring to. Which actual person did “people” stand for?

And so I gave up. Neither he, nor she, can expect me to understand. What the heck are they saying? Why are they so mad at me? What did I do that hurt them so, and why did it hurt them?
I told them all that I give up. And guess what? Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing personal, nothing public. Nothing from those two, or the rest of those people I called friends. And are they? Who knows. But you know, what I said? I don’t know if it actually made any sense to the rest of them. Kitty maybe. Because she’s been asking me, and I trust her at least partially. And because Jane’s been talking to her also. I don’t know how much Ari knows, but – you know what? No, yes, no, I don’t know. I don’t know how much she knows, and do I care? Screw all of them. This is my problem, not yours, Jane, and not yours, Jason. Yes it’s a bit to do with you, but you know what? You can’t go tell everyone. You don’t get to do that. But that’s what you do, isn’t it Jane?

You’re not a trustworthy person. No wonder that’s what you heard when I told you that I didn’t trust you. That was one of the worst possible things I could’ve done because you depend on other people’s perception of you. So since I told you that I didn’t trust you, and other people heard – well, you were so hurt because now you heard me announce to everyone that you’re not trustworthy. And that’s not what I said. I’d wondered, you know, about why you thought that. But now it’s clear. You’re not trustworthy, but you desperately want others to think so.
It’s funny, I understand this about you, and you probably have no idea. I suspect that perhaps I understand you better than you do. Oh, I always say it’s impossible to know everything about another person, and I believe that. I don’t know everything about you, but I think I understand integrally you now. I understand you better than I understand me, perhaps. Like how I understand Cassandra. And she doesn’t know it either. Neither of you will ever know. I certainly won’t tell you. Or anyone. The danger with understanding people, whether it’s just a part of them like Kitty and Tom, or the structural traits that make up who you are, like you and Cassandra, is that usually it is what you don’t even know. And would not be pleased to hear. People think better of themselves than what they are. So even though I could tell you, you might not believe me, but regardless, it’s still true. It’s still true, and it’ll hurt, and you’ll be angry.

I would that anyone could see me so clearly and tell me. Or perhaps that is what Jason is trying to do. Not you Jane, I know that. Or maybe Yuuki can. Probably she can. After all, I’m a figment of her imagination. Well, I used to sort of – no. To her, I’m real. Or maybe she’s the only one who knows I’m not. I’m definitely fictional. I know that.

A figment of Kitty’s imagination, and Jane’s maybe. Jane keeps insisting to Jason I’m real, perhaps that’s why he’s angry. Explains why Tom stopped talking to me too. Except that Tom is still my friend, I think. We talk and hang out, now that he’s around. When he was away, he was just busy is the impression I get. But is it the truth? Or is it just the impression calculated to give? Or perhaps both. Hm? No, I don’t know.

Sammy’s my friend. I know that. He cares about me. He’s real. We’ve discussed the extent to which he was created by my imagination. And I came to the conclusion that he’s real. It’s remarkable really.

I’m so thankful for Sammy, and for Yuuki. And for Kitty? I’m thankful that Kitty, less for Kitty. Not like I am with. Oh whatever. It doesn’t matter. Even I don’t know what I meant there by this point. But even them, how much do I trust them? Oh it’s all a chess game. Nothing is so simple as it seems. There’s no such thing as face value. Nothing is literal.

Time’s up. “Go to bed, Soren,” I say.

I’m freezing and wet. I duck back inside. Pull off the wet clothes and snuggle down in my bed. I reach out to open the window, perhaps I’ll be able to sleep listening to the pouring rain.
I listen to the downpour, it’s peaceful. But then it slackens, lessens, stops. And later, I finally slip into a sleep, to the sound of distant cars driving through shallow splashes.