“I don’t think I understand anything.”

​

Ry scoffs. She always scoffs.

​

“No, seriously,” I tell her. “I swear, none of it makes sense.”

​

We are at the arcade—the boardwalk specifically. Somehow that feels more adult than the arcade by itself—and we’ve been hunkering down at the skee ball row for what feels like hours—it's been 26 minutes and some odd change. Literally. 

​

She taps the polyurethane ball onto the plywood lane. “Okay, fine. What’s anything?” She doesn’t roll her eyes. That’s a small kindness.

​

“Life. It drives me insane—”

​

“Insane’s ableist.”

​

“Fine. Wild.”

​

“I still think that has bad connotations.”

​

I breathe out.

​

This. This makes sense in a fucked-up way. Ry reads articles. She listens to NPR and watches VOX video and a dozen other small podcasts and YouTube blogs. She understands the power of words. She’s got a list of things to be anti.

​

I roll a ball. It pops up heading right for the 100. It bounces off the plastic.

​

I’m grasping at straws. I have no way to explain it, just the feeling of my ribs slowly closing forever even though I know they aren’t moving. Even though they never actually suffocate me.

“I think I’m afraid of heaven.”

​

“I think that’s religious trauma.”

​

Ry’s right. I’ve always been too queer for the gods I was taught about. People mention religion and it feels like I have a neon sign flashing. Traumatized gay here who hasn’t made progress on that topic in therapy yet.

​

The neon sign turns off. I sink a 40.

 

“No, it's not just that. I don’t think it's just that.”

​

Ry sinks a 100. But she nods. 

​

“It's—it's like I have a love hate relationship with life.”

​

It's not quite that, no. It's like I have fantasies, but they are never with people—no, they are other people, but they aren’t real. It's not a healthy relationship. It's like—I once read that there is no way to actually define something. All definitions are fake because every one relies on other words.

​

“That still sounds like religious trauma.”

 

She gets a 40 and a 30 back to back.

Language is messed up. I groan. “I don’t know if there’s a way to say what I mean.”

​

Ry shrugs. She’s tired of this conversation. “So don’t.”

“But—”

​

“X.” She turns to me. “Calm down. You know I’m a label gal, right? Demi girl, neurodivergent, disabled but able-bodied. I love ‘em, right?”

​

She stares at me. I nod.

​

“Okay, good. But no label is perfect. No word is perfect. Language helps, language is a privilege and a tool. But most importantly, it's a collaboration. So, why does it matter if you understand anything?”

​

“Because…”

“Because?”

​

I turn to the floor. An ugly stained thing. Dark in the bright flashing lights.

​

“Because it would be easier.”

​

“What would be easier?” She’s looking at me now. Her wide eyes, her sharp jaw that reminds of cartoon characters, her endless care and knowledge. She’s so… her.

“Life. Living.” They both feel a little too much like my last breath of air. Like exhaling while under water.

​

Ry smiles. “What do you think people create religions for?”

​

I wish I believed in god. I really do. I wish that I could believe in a purpose. But it all just makes me think of being alone. Of feeling the weight of a constant sin. They never really had any good reason for me to be gay.

​

The lights flash. Ry beat me again.

​

“I think… maybe I’m just sad.”