By Rainer Zhang

A bridge running over the highway. A razor blade in a bush of dried moss, covered with white, fuzzy mold. 

I was telling you about the crafting knives in the dollar store and how I’ve thought of cutting with these. You almost started crying. It’s funny how I can just buy something like that for three dollars. 

Don’t say that. 

It’s what I think. If it’d make you stop worrying I can lie about it. I’d do anything to make you okay. 

That’s cowardly. I’m sorry. 

Now I think of all the times I walked past the arts and crafts aisle without knowing you. Now I lay in bed starving myself so I would get to hurt just as much as you do. There’s no reason for me to be okay if you’re not. 

There’s no reason for me to be okay. 

—But the security guard at the dollar store is so nice. She’s in her eighties and insists on holding the door open for you. 

One day we will both be okay. One day I would grow a pot of basil in our apartment and make pizza with you; One day we stroll past walls and walls of roses in our backyard, and this dreadful mid July sun glistening off of razor blades wouldn’t be so dreadful anymore. One day we will, but not now. 

I lay down and think I’ll wait for you now. It’s an axiomatic thing. I wait for you the same way I wait for my own heartbeat. 

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Rainer is a writer based in Canada, forever waiting to go home to sunny California. For most of their lives they’ve written to find the words for what we don’t have words for.