I saw the bed and the fan and I felt a strange lurching of the stomach. I was nervous and my palms were perspiring profusely. He immediately laid on his bed once we reached his room. I saw the familiar heady intensity in his eyes. Some things simply remain, no matter how we try to mask or change them.

    "Paul's mom was my dad's mistress," he said.

    I watched his face rumple into a ruddy mess of awkward angles. He didn't cry.

    "What am I supposed to tell you?" I said quietly.

    "Exactly that," he said hoarsely.

   I sat down next to him. The sun was falling directly on his face. "Do you want me to shut the blinds?" I asked him.

    He shook his head.

    Many times, I had paced about the room in perplexed silence while he laid on the bed, searching for the right words to soothe his fiery anger, which threatened constantly to explode from his motionless body. I would chide myself internally for not being able to comfort him - I can't feel you. I don't know what to say.

    "How did you find out?" I asked.

    "Paul told me," he said. He let out a primal yell. "FUCK!"

    I stood silent. His livid face began to lose colour. He started breathing through his mouth. "I find it incredible that after so longŠ"

    "Certain things start to take meaning," I said softly. For once I got it right.

    "It's mind-blowing, it's amazing. And it's so fricking SCARY!" He closed his eyes.

    I sat down in his chair and took his hands. "Aren't you glad you've found it now?"

    "I wish it came sooner." He said. "Now it means I have to unbelieve."

    Suddenly he stood up and whirled around. "Shut the blinds," he growled. "It's fucking bright in here."