Exotic

~ stagnant motion ~

Alba kept humming, writing notes as her eyes flicked around my paper. It was driving me crazy. I sat on the edge of my seat, fingers cupped around my knees and toes tapping furiously.

She finally dropped it, eyebrows furrowed worryingly in the middle. She was dressed in a crimson boatneck top and black flare pants which highlighted her leg-to-torso ratio beautifully. Her makeup was, as usual, flawless and I was tempted to derail the conversation with questions about how she got her collarbones to shine as they did. Her ballpoint pen rested between her tattooed wedding ring and middle finger, flicking back and forth like a metronome.

I leaned forward, lips chapped from all the chewing I'd put it through. "So? Did I pass?"

"It's not a test, Miles," she opened her glasses and put them on; they made her look sterner.

"Did I fail?" It might have been the first and only time I was eager to do so.

She tipped her head to the side, eyes warm and kind. It was the kind of look that told me bad news was coming. "You've ranked high for both anxiety and depression."

I reclined into my chair, eyes dropping to my feet. The shame that blanketed me at hearing that felt like something Alba should have known, so she could psychoanalyse it. I kept it to myself.

"The test is to rank how you felt in the last week, so I understand why the results might be skewed," she said gently. "You've got a borderline score, so regularly I suspect the symptoms are more moderate. But that's still important to know."

I let my eyes drift shut, blocking out at least one hyperactive sensation.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

I laughed a little before answering. "Uhm. Sceptical?"

"Why?"

I shrugged to my ears. "Because I don't feel depressed. Anxious, sure, I get nervous, I had one panic attack. Maybe I have mild anxiety, but I don't think I'm depressed."

She nodded empathetically. "They often go hand in hand. Especially in cases of delayed grief."

I linked my fingers together in my lap, unable to right my hunched shoulders.

"I don't want to analyse your answers too much," she put aside the paper, tapping her nails across the top of her clipboard. "But the last one stuck out. You feel worthless most of the time? Four out of five?"

I made a face. "I marked it in a hurry. It's probably more like a three..."

"That's still proportionately high," she placed aside her clipboard. She tended to do that when she wanted to dive deep. "Do you want to talk me through that?"

I swallowed. "Do you want me to?"

Her lips were plum-coloured today; it made it obvious when she smiled. "We can talk about whatever you want. But sometimes hearing yourself unpack those feelings can be more helpful than me trying and possibly going down the wrong path."

I found myself opening and closing my mouth a few times in several failed starts before I finally managed to get some words out. "I don't know. I do know. I'm failing my final year of school, I am living in constant fear that I'm going to drop one too many hints to Reece and he'll go mental, I hate what I look like most of the time, the guy I like is so not right for me to get involved with right now... I want my mum back. I've got her urn in my closet. I'm mostly invisible at school which is great for self-esteem, but it's better that way because when I'm not invisible I'm usually being chased down by some asshole who wants to beat the shit out of me. Not because I'm gay, just because they can and I won't fight back. I can't fight back. I can't fucking drive. Take your pick. I'm just not very... worthwhile most of the time. I don't feel worthy of the things I do have, like Aaron and Max and... my other friends. And when I feel good, I feel like I'm lying to everyone else in the process."