Disclaimer: I do not own the wonderful Furuba.

It had been week since he has last slept, unless one counts the many times during class where he has drifted into a disturbing and nonsensical dreamscape. Lately he's been uptight, paranoia sneaking up on him at the smallest incidents. He fights, as always, but it is reckless and desperate, as though he has accepted that he has no chance of winning. He wonders if anyone is worried about him. Shishou might be, but he doesn't mention it. That's probably for the best, since Kyo knows he would probably explode if Shishou did. He can't rationalize anymore; it's just too hard to concentrate. He just wants people to leave him alone, so he can get used to it.

We sit on the roof, and he tells me these things, and though I try to help him I never know what to say. It makes me feel so guilty, the way he leaves himself so open for me to hurt him; I do not know who he is mistaking me for, but I try to be that person. And I fear I am only making it worse, with my words of blind comfort. But I'll try my hardest to be a good person, even if it is at his expense after all. I'll stroke his hair and look into his eyes, I'll tell him it's all right. It's not all right, as these dratted tears in my eyes betray. You don't want my help; you want someone who can make a difference.

He holds me close, but can't put his arms around me. He says it's okay, and we both know it's a lie, which is why we depend on it. He'll tell me it's okay. I'll tell him it's okay. It's like an addiction, and even if it feels good, knowing it will hurt in the morning gives that a hollow feeling. But when I see him, or any one else for that matter, in daylight, I'll pretend I'm all better. I'll be an optimist, and we'll talk as though we're reading lines from a play. The day will go by so fast, and all our friends will pretend that we're the same as always.

I don't really know if we're helping or hurting each other, but it is getting us through this. So I'll keep trying to become the person he thinks I am. I'll keep hoping that someday I'll be able to think of the words to help him. And I'll keep hoping that one day we get around to actually coming up with a plan.

At school he scribbles escape routes in the corner of his notebook. He adds up the price of plane tickets with his calculator and we pass it back and forth to compare. He'll practice his new signature when he can't think of anything else to do. When we talk about it it's all just a joke, and we'll laugh about it until that's all that people will ever think is wrong with us. You can change your name, but you can't change your identity.

He'll say he's sorry for doing this to me. I won't say that I need him to. Someday he'll figure that out. Hopefully that day will be after this is all over and we don't have to hide anymore, whispering on the roof as we wait for sunrise to come once again.