It was late. You were on the roof of the house, sharing a blanket and a tea thermos. The night was calm, the sky clear. Joey looked at the void, his hands crossed between his knees.

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to run away from me?” He asked.

“Never.”

He hesitated. Then, he let go:

“Once, my father locked me in the kitchen cupboard for breaking a plate.”

You held his hand.

“I sometimes lock myself in the bathroom and dance alone until I pass the knot in my chest.”

Joey let out a weak laugh.

“I pretended I didn’t cry when I saw you at the ballet presentation. But I cried.”

“I stole one of your T-shirts once. Because it smelled like you. And it calmed me down.”

He turned to you, surprised.

You shrugged, a little shy.

“Secret for secret.”

Joey leaned his body, leaning his head on his shoulder.

“With you, even my traumas seem less unbearable.”