I have been trying to cure you. For a long time now.

Well, from the day we started business school I noticed something about you. Quiet. You were quiet and pensive. You’d walk around with a still, steady sway, like a tall palm tree in a desert. I wasn’t having the greatest time either — I’d spend the nights stuffing myself with Chinese take-out as I sifted through spreadsheets.

One day after class, I sat near you on the concrete bench, my notes blinded by the stark rays of the sun. I looked up at you to ask what time it was, and you just erupted. Tears shot down your cheeks. You rubbed your palms together in your lap. Finally, you stared straight into space. Your face was completely drained.

I didn’t talk to you for a week after that. Every time I thought of calling you, I felt claustrophobic. So I went back to wandering alone, but then everything in my life seemed even more superficial, especially the fortune cookies. So one night I called you up. “Wanna go get some paella?” I asked cheerfully.

That night in the restaurant, under the glow of red lights, you were quiet as usual. I shoved a piece of shrimp in my mouth. Quiet. But I didn’t let it bother me. I chewed as loudly as possible to fill the silence. Then I talked. And talked. You stared at your food and swallowed slowly. As I was mid-sentence —

“Could you please turn your voice down?” the waitress said. Abruptly her face came into view and then vanished. I buried my head in my hands and I writhed uncomfortably in my own skin. You slowly sunk away from the table. I looked up at you, embarrassed for having made a scene. “I’m sorry, I just — “

“No,” you shrugged.

And that was all you said, but suddenly I loved you.

“There’s just so much inside of me!” I sighed. I grunted. You nodded.

You put your hands on the chair and keeled over, as if your torso was caving in. You confessed that you envied me, because there wasn’t much inside of you. You said you could sense a parasite in your mind, eating away, making “empty holes” where words had once been. So you could no longer name your feelings. Anonymous feelings, you reported, but you could somehow carry on with business as usual. Again, I decided I loved you and I took great pity on you.

We took a taxi home. You were quiet, so I chatted garrulously. We stared at each other through our reflections in the dark window as the sky went from periwinkle to plum.

When we paid the taxi, my mind was filled with chatter. If anyone could cure you, I could cure you. I told you I understood, just like you understood me. You sighed with relief. I was ecstatic, and I anxiously scribbled you down: my Project.

I instructed you to text me every evening at 9pm. I took you to Quaker service and spinning class. I took you for walks to get some fresh air. I called to check in on you, and spilled words into your ears whenever I could. I knew exactly what you needed. You would be cured in no time. I mused to myself about more vitamins and rituals to add to our checklist. I would make you a book of my most inspirational poems... I would insist you eat raw garlic...

And then one night, 9 p.m. passed and there was no text from you. I waited. 10 p.m. 11 p.m. Finally, I got a blank message from you. I stared at the screen.

Dismal. White.

Failure. Crisis. Sirens went off. Like a firefighter called to the fire, I threw on my jacket. It was raining hard, but I was impermeable as I raced through the downpour. I knocked my knuckles almost through the door. My heart was thumping.

The door peeled open. You were still in your suit, your neck choked with a green tie. You stared down at me with that blank, pale face.

“How beautiful the rain is!” I chirped. Your eyes emptied like a flushing toilet bowl.

And then, I decided to try the last cure I had inside me. “Can I hold you?” I shouted.

Without waiting for a response, I lunged at you. I grabbed you, as you stood there soft and still. I was ready to cradle you like a baby in my arms, but I had overestimated my size. My head jammed in the crook of your armpit. After ten minutes, the rain continued to pour. I squeezed onto you for dear life.

You said nothing.

I let go. I stepped back, drenched and my teeth clattering. I looked at you from afar. There was that quiet stillness in your eyes, even though they were glassy and the moisture trembled on their surface. And as the rain continued to clamor, I smiled at you as if I understood.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I know exactly how you feel. It’s not empty!”

But you just shrugged and said, “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” You closed the door slowly, with a serene calmness. I staggered away, drunk with exhaustion. I nibbled the skin around my nails. Just like you, I was at a loss for words. And for the first time, I questioned whether or not I could really cure you.

And then it hit me. Who am I trying to cure?