shaking

My best friend’s father is dying.

We don’t talk about it.

Here's the thing:

My job is not to talk about it. There's something in the set of the clouds, the flicker of the lights above us, that changes more than I could possibly try.

My best friend’s hands shake too much to do her homework, sometimes.

We don’t talk about it.

Instead, I braid her hair before class. I do her eyeliner when she can barely hold her fingers straight, sitting on the sink and rambling until she can breathe again.

My best friend's world is falling apart.

We don't talk about it.