I remind myself that I had promised you. It hadn't been fair, I didn't have any time to think about it, and I couldn't convince you to change your mind once I had promised. But still, a promise is a promise, and so I am here with you tonight, two hundred kilometers from home.

        You and I have been close for a long time. Ever since that day that you reached out to me, when I was sprawled out on the playground's hard concrete; ever since you reached out and helped me to my feet; ever since you reached out and lead me to the first-aid room to tend to my skinned knees; since then, we've been together. I look back now, and know that that moment, that moment of kindness, that moment of gentleness, that moment of polar opposites coming together would later come to be what our relationship is all about.

        Before that very moment, you were just another child in the class. I was the rowdy one, and very few kids wanted to play with me. I was always playing alone, though I made enough racket for four or five children. When I fell, I was in silence, as the wind had been knocked out of me. Then you stepped forward. Only then did I notice you, as you were one of the quiet and gentle ones.

        Together, then, we set off on our path together, that upon which we still travel tonight. At first we were just friends at school. During recess I'd take you out exploring the schoolyard, showing you all the dirty-hands things that were my kingdom. We were just school friends. During the summer, I found out, quite by accident, that you lived only a few blocks away. That was the first summer in which I'd go play with others without being nagged at. That summer, we learned so much about the neighbourhood, about each other, and about ourselves. The discussions we had on your lawn at night were treasures to me. I still remember the smell of the grass and the freshness of the breeze as I listened to the simple wisdom of your voice under the stars. Being children, we talked about mundane things, but underneath it all the secrets of the universe unfolded themselves before our whimsical souls. I still remember your voice in the wind that blew over our faces and caressed the trees.

        -"Where do stars come from?"
        -"From dust in space. I can't remember exactly how."
        -"No, but where do stars really come from?"
        -"I told you, dust in space! It's what the science book I have at home says."
        -"No, I don't think that's it."
        -"Well, where do they come from, then, smarty-pants?"
        -"I think they come from our heads."
        -"Huh?"
        -"Our imaginations. Bright lights in the darkness. That's how our heads work, too."

        I always felt great joy when around you, no matter my mood. You understood my joy as we continued through school together. As we progressed through the twilight of elementary school into the bright dawn of high school, our bodies began to change. Others commented about our relationship; catcalls and jeers from the boys, silly rhymes and chants from the girls. They didn't understand. One girl confided in me, very courageously, I admit, that you and I ought to date. I remember discussing this with you, and we laughed. We needed no formal organization of how we were. We understood.

        I got to know your family, and you got to know mine. We are both only children, but the similarities went little further than that. Your mother had died soon after your birth, in violence and fire. As a result, your father raised you to be kind and gentle, to at least prevent a repetition of his wife's death. Both my parents are quite healthy, though a little too kind for my good. They spoiled me sometimes. When I met you, I was a rogue little kid, but I hadn't yet realized my potential for causing trouble. Oh, sure, I was naughty at times and I was a real scamp, but I hadn't begun to get into real trouble.

        When I became your friend, your gentle demeanour began to wear off on me. I cannot express my gratitude for your teaching me that, as it serves me now. You huddle in my arms, under my jacket, desperate for warmth. You are like a baby in my arms; totally vulnerable, and you trust me to treat you gently. I could not had you not taught me how to be tender and gentle.

        The problems began that particular day two months ago. We walked home together to your place, to study. You cooked dinner, rather should I say, we cooked dinner. We sat and continued to study, waiting for your father to get home. 5:30; 6:30, he hadn't come home; 7:00, we ate dinner and left him a portion; 8:00, we phoned your dad's office: no one was there, of course; we tried his cell phone: there was no signal; 8:30, you began worrying, and I did my best to comfort you; 9:00, you phoned the police. I returned from the kitchen with a glass of soda for each of us to find you standing, staring blankly, holding the phone to your ear.

        You politely said goodbye, and hung up the phone. I put the glasses on the table and stepped forward. You were facing away from me. You stood still for a moment, then turned and threw yourself into my arms. It wasn't until the officer arrived at the door that I found out the truth, when the officer explained she was taking us to identify the body.

        I look down at you. Your eyes are now closed, and your breathing comes in regular time. You are asleep. The rain continues to sing its gentle but cold song for us. I feel your body pressed against me, one large mass radiating heat. I hug you firmly and rest my head upon yours.

        "He was killed in a head-on collision," you had said calmly, on auto-pilot. In the police cruiser, you fidgeted uncomfortably, and held my hand. I felt unsettled, as well. Two fourteen-year olds in the back of a police cruiser at night seemed...wrong, as if we had broken the law. We were first taken to the station, where you identified yourself, and then we were taken to the morgue. I had to lead you by the hand. You said nothing, applying great pressure to my hand instead; you had a wonderfully powerful grip for one so gentle.

        When the morgue tablet was drawn from the wall, you broke and buried your face in my collar. The coroner looked uncomfortable. I positively identified your father, and the coroner took my word. We went back to the station, where I phoned my parents and explained. You sat in shock.

        You spent that night at my house. You were up late into the night, and I was beside you when you finally fell asleep. My parents did not protest when both of us emerged from the same room in the morning. Under normal circumstances they would have flayed me. Instead, my mother phoned the school and explained that neither of us would be at school that day and probably for the next few days as well, due to a death in the family. You ate breakfast mechanically, forcing the food into your mouth. I fared little better. We were left alone together that day. Most day was spent in a state of limbo. You were still in shock, and spent most of the day in my arms, drifting in and out of wakefulness. You were never one for constant intimate contact, but that day you seemed to need physical contact more than conservative values.

        You squirm in my arms, your sleep disturbed by some night terror. Nightmares have held you in their thrall all week. But you could never tell me what the nightmare was about when you woke me up. Shaking, trembling in my arms, you would only hold me tightly. I lay a kiss on your forehead, less for you than for me, to show that I've remembered my promise.

        The next two days were like living in a haze. You and I spent all our time together, in a slow-shifting state of grief. We talked little. The old clock downstairs spun the minute hand around the face like a merry-go-round in slow-motion. On the third day, you finally wept once more. That day was the funeral. Relatives that you rarely saw arrived to pay their last respects for your father. After laying a single purple tulip on your father's casket, you wandered away into the graveyard. I followed you, but at a respectful distance. You were crying, but I knew that it was just as cruel for me to stay away from you as it would have to hug you and wipe away your tears as I wanted.

        There were no close relatives in the province, so, with some effort, you were formally adopted into my family. Two weeks after your father's death, you became my younger sibling. Our lives became more complicated. Together we all had a long talk on where in the house you should live. You were completely indifferent about it, and sat in silence while I discussed it with my parents.

        There were no spare rooms, so I argued that you and I should share a room. After all, we had spent the last week or two sleeping in the same bed, and once or twice we ended up on the couch, in a heap of limbs and body parts. One such time I woke up sprawled on the floor, completely oblivious in my sleep. My parents were opposed to the idea. I think what changed their mind was when I explained why I thought it was best. I had tried to explain at great length the implications of grieving, but it came out that you and I wouldn't be fooling around, so we should be allowed to sleep in the same bed. You were comfortable with me, if you could be comfortable at all, and being alone all night wasn't best for you then.

        It was that night that you confessed to me your greatest fear: Now that I was your family, you were afraid that you'd lose me, just as you had your mother and father. I suspect that you saw yourself as a magnet for tragedy at that moment. This sentiment moved me to tears. It was I who cried, though you were trembling in my arms. It was then that you asked me. I promised, swearing to you that I would never leave you until you were ready to be on your own. I sealed that promise with something special, something I had never done before. I wiped the tears from my eyes and pressed my lips to yours. That first kiss was my promise to you that I would follow you, that I would stay with you.

        That kiss led me to where I am now, with you. We all tried hard to make everything work, but we had little experience dealing with death. It's no one's fault, least of all yours, as you tried hard to fit in and live in our home, your home. But it didn't work. The grief was too much for you. We all tried to get along. However, everyone was under a lot of stress and feelings got hurt. The night before we ran away, you woke me early in the morning and explained to me that you could not stay. I wasn't capable of rational thought at four in the morning, so I could not dissuade you from leaving.

        Twelve days ago, you and I left for "school", but in reality hopped on the first train south. That night I phoned mom and dad, to let them know that we were safe, that we hadn't been abducted or killed. Of course, they demanded that we come home immediately, but I tried to explain that you couldn't stay there. We had to leave. My mom got very angry, but when she talked to you, she seemed to calm down, and perhaps she understood a bit. Your voice was almost a whisper, almost a whimper. You sounded very afraid. You handed the phone back to me. I had my bile up and was ready to launch into a long tirade, when my mother said that she and dad had agreed that this was necessary. First, she made me promise to come home some day. I agreed. She never gave a date or time, just that I had to eventually return.

        Next, my father got on the line and explained the situation. To make sure that we were safe, we had to phone every day. We had to tell them where we were, and how we were doing. I suppose they did this so they would have some control over the situation. We also had to eat right, and for that my father would place some money in my bank account to feed us. Also, to make sure we didn't get arrested by the police, my parents would tell the school that we were both at home, sick. Almost an hour after I had dialed home, I said my goodbyes to my parents, and then handed the phone back to you. You nodded and made affirmative sounds, but didn't actually say anything. You hung up the phone, and stood still for a moment, your hand still resting on the handset hanging in the hook. I recognized that look. I had seen it constantly since you came to live at my house.

        I took you into my arms, and held you tight. You rested your head against my chest, neither smiling nor frowning. We stood there in the light of the phone booth for almost half an hour. It began to get cold, so we went to look for shelter for the night.

        Tonight's call was short and bleak. You talked to my mom, but it seemed like neither of you had much to say. The talk was short, with the promise of the obligatory phone call tomorrow night. I said goodbye to dad, who expressed concern for us before hanging up the phone.

        This has to be the end. The past twelve days have been hard, much harder than even after your father died. At first you tried to be strong, but in the last few days you've been completely dependent on me. Twelve days of homelessness is an experience, but I'm not willing to do it by choice ever again.

        You tremble in my arms again. Nightmares are disturbing your sleep much more frequently now. It is cold out. The rain is only getting heavier, and it's beginning to dampen my clothing. I have made a decision. I will carry out my promise to you. I love you, and do not want to see you suffer. Tomorrow night I will make the phone call, and simply say three short words: "We're coming home."