Elliot freezes in the middle of taking a step, almost tripping. His face shows a state of shock and horror.
"What?" He chokes out, staring at me in disbelief. "Dude, you're kidding. You're just joking around, right?"
I shake my head no.
"What better way," he trails off every few words. "to start a bro day than with a good... good practical joke. Am I r-right?"
He offers a weak chuckle, waiting in horrified silence for my answer.
"No," I tell him in a flat, angry tone. "I'm not kidding."
Inside, I was fighting back the urge to punch him. There's a difference between being shocked and then telling me I'm joking when I'm obviously telling the truth.
He opens his mouth but hesitates for a moment. "I'm out of here. Call me when you're actually a bro."
He turns around and leaves and I don't go after him. I will not go after him. 'It's not my fault,' I tell myself. 'It's just him. He's the problem.'
Somehow, I can't convince myself that he truly is. I choke back tears, sinking to my knees on the floor as the realizations hit me. I just came out to my best friend. I just lost my best friend and the only person I've ever loved before. I let him walk away. I didn't even fight back.
"No, no, no," I repeat to myself between heavy breaths. "You cannot go back to that. You can't do that again."
I've never been very persuasive, even with myself.
Soon enough, I find my old razor. I stare at it for a minute, remembering the past years that I used it. I haven't picked it up for two years, but now I see nothing better to do.
I let myself press the blade against the skin on my wrist and cut a long slit across it. Tears stream down my face as I throw the razor back across my room and watch the blood swell up.