eyes, I squeeze his hand again and quietly cry while my mom stands beside me with her hand on my shoulder.
My mom and I stay in Camden’s room as day breaks while my dad stays in the waiting room after seeing Camden for a few minutes. A nurse tried to argue that I should leave, too, but my parents argued right back until she gave up. It’s not like I would have left anyway.
I’m right where I need to be.
I know that to be truer than anything else when, just after ten a.m., Camden finally opens his eyes and sees me. Sunlight shines through the open blinds, slivers of rays dancing on Camden’s bed.
“Yan,” he whispers, squeezing my hand that’s still holding his. His beautiful face softens beneath the ugly scars.
He looks down when I try to meet his eyes, so I do the only thing I know that will make him feel better. While my parents nap on the bed the nurse brought my mom a few hours ago, I crawl into Camden’s bed, careful not to touch his chest or any of the IV lines. Once I settle beside him, he inches closer to me and turns to face me, wincing as the pain radiates throughout his body.
“I knew you’d save me,” he whispers, his breath falling on my cheek.
For the first three days in the hospital, Camden and I are questioned by the police and the hospital social workers. They separate us, asking both of us about details neither of us wants to answer. When we are separated, my dad stays with Camden, and my mom takes me to the cafeteria. From the look on my mom’s face, I know she isn’t happy. When she starts to voice her concerns about Camden moving in with us, shock makes me clench my hands into fists.
I get that we’re young, and I know most kids our age don’t act like us. Boys want to hang out with other boys while girls want to play with other girls. But that’s not us. Whether we like it or not, Camden’s parents made us who we are. His parents brought us together and made us grow up faster than any of the other kids we know. I’m the one Camden reaches for, so I reach back as often as possible because I know how alone he always feels, how unwanted he thinks he is.
I explain that to my mom, but her deep sigh and wrinkled forehead let me know that she doesn’t understand.
On the fourteenth day, my parents and I arrive at the hospital just after nine a.m., only to find Camden’s room empty.
In that moment, despair conquers all of my thoughts, grasping on to me so that I can’t move. My dad lied to me. He said they wouldn’t take Camden away, and they did. Even though my mom reassures me that he’s okay, I can’t be sure until I see him. We haven’t even met the social worker who was assigned to him and took him to the group home, even after my parents had told everyone—the police, doctors, hospital social workers—they wanted to be his guardian.
Camden’s right. People go about their business, unaffected by your wants. They only do as much as they have to, nothing more.
And no one had to make sure Camden came home with us. They didn’t care about what he wanted.
He’s nothing more than another job. Another voiceless face.
Walking into the group home fills me with dread. Dread of the sad stories that fill the place. Dread of the bland walls waiting for me inside. Dread for the boy I love who now has to live within these walls, full of secrets and shame no one wants revealed.
After meeting Camden’s social worker, I follow her instructions to get to Camden’s room while my parents go with her to meet with the woman who runs the home. I hesitate by his door, but then I remind myself that it’s Camden.
Life around us might change. But we’ll always be us.
I walk through his open door with a big smile on my face, and I find him lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“What’s so interesting up there?” I ask.
He looks at me for the briefest of seconds before he returns his gaze to the ceiling.
Not knowing what else to say, I sit on his bed and look at anything but
My mom and I stay in Camden’s room as day breaks while my dad stays in the waiting room after seeing Camden for a few minutes. A nurse tried to argue that I should leave, too, but my parents argued right back until she gave up. It’s not like I would have left anyway.
I’m right where I need to be.
I know that to be truer than anything else when, just after ten a.m., Camden finally opens his eyes and sees me. Sunlight shines through the open blinds, slivers of rays dancing on Camden’s bed.
“Yan,” he whispers, squeezing my hand that’s still holding his. His beautiful face softens beneath the ugly scars.
He looks down when I try to meet his eyes, so I do the only thing I know that will make him feel better. While my parents nap on the bed the nurse brought my mom a few hours ago, I crawl into Camden’s bed, careful not to touch his chest or any of the IV lines. Once I settle beside him, he inches closer to me and turns to face me, wincing as the pain radiates throughout his body.
“I knew you’d save me,” he whispers, his breath falling on my cheek.
For the first three days in the hospital, Camden and I are questioned by the police and the hospital social workers. They separate us, asking both of us about details neither of us wants to answer. When we are separated, my dad stays with Camden, and my mom takes me to the cafeteria. From the look on my mom’s face, I know she isn’t happy. When she starts to voice her concerns about Camden moving in with us, shock makes me clench my hands into fists.
I get that we’re young, and I know most kids our age don’t act like us. Boys want to hang out with other boys while girls want to play with other girls. But that’s not us. Whether we like it or not, Camden’s parents made us who we are. His parents brought us together and made us grow up faster than any of the other kids we know. I’m the one Camden reaches for, so I reach back as often as possible because I know how alone he always feels, how unwanted he thinks he is.
I explain that to my mom, but her deep sigh and wrinkled forehead let me know that she doesn’t understand.
On the fourteenth day, my parents and I arrive at the hospital just after nine a.m., only to find Camden’s room empty.
In that moment, despair conquers all of my thoughts, grasping on to me so that I can’t move. My dad lied to me. He said they wouldn’t take Camden away, and they did. Even though my mom reassures me that he’s okay, I can’t be sure until I see him. We haven’t even met the social worker who was assigned to him and took him to the group home, even after my parents had told everyone—the police, doctors, hospital social workers—they wanted to be his guardian.
Camden’s right. People go about their business, unaffected by your wants. They only do as much as they have to, nothing more.
And no one had to make sure Camden came home with us. They didn’t care about what he wanted.
He’s nothing more than another job. Another voiceless face.
Walking into the group home fills me with dread. Dread of the sad stories that fill the place. Dread of the bland walls waiting for me inside. Dread for the boy I love who now has to live within these walls, full of secrets and shame no one wants revealed.
After meeting Camden’s social worker, I follow her instructions to get to Camden’s room while my parents go with her to meet with the woman who runs the home. I hesitate by his door, but then I remind myself that it’s Camden.
Life around us might change. But we’ll always be us.
I walk through his open door with a big smile on my face, and I find him lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“What’s so interesting up there?” I ask.
He looks at me for the briefest of seconds before he returns his gaze to the ceiling.
Not knowing what else to say, I sit on his bed and look at anything but
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