The hardest part of falling in love was the inevitable breakup. A person could fall in love a million times, in a million different ways, and be left in a thousand pieces every time. Out of all of the best places to fall in love, a psych ward wasn’t one of them. Wren stood outside River’s room, having grown close to him over their shared stay. Discharge had always felt strange, but it was never bittersweet before. In a twisted sort of way, he’d miss the hospital. It had been three months since River’s admission. He suspected he’d be back here soon enough.

Wren dressed simply, wearing mostly whites and greys. She’d been struggling, and River was the only one who knew this. “Here,” she said, standing sheepishly in the doorway of his hospital room, holding out a piece of small white paper. “I drew you a picture. It’s not the best.” Head ducked, she swept a foot against the floor. “I’m not an artist like you.” Like he had with everybody before her, River had fallen for Wren in a single moment after meeting her. Over the past weeks, Wren had gotten into the habit of sneaking out of her room after lights out, and tiptoeing down the hallway to his, and then disappearing before the nurses came around in the morning. It was stupid, maybe, to pursue somebody else as a boy who couldn’t even manage himself. He knew all about Wren’s family, and her hobbies, and her fears.

It was time to go. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.” Like everybody before her, Wren had no idea what she’d gotten herself into. River was a lot, but he was also one of the most creative and passionate people you could ever meet. Before picking up his bags from the hallway floor, he hugged her. Wren was beautiful and sweet. Wren was nothing like anyone he’d ever met before. “I’ll miss you.”

She was very thin, and nearly as tall as him. Wren was a registered nurse, and had struggled with eating disorders in the past - though she claimed to be mostly recovered now. Bashful, she looked at the floor. “I wrote my phone number on the back. I’m supposed to be discharged next month. I was thinking, if you want, we could hang out.”

River had to get going. His few belongings, which had been taken from him upon arrival, needed to be picked up at reception. He couldn’t leave Wren. He remembered what he’d spoken about with Goulding. “Hang out as friends, or on a date?” He’d learned, recently, that you couldn’t force a person to like you, no matter how badly you wanted them to. Like anything else he’d learned from shrinks, he’d forget this.

Wren was kind, and smart, and much more put-together than him. “A date.” She smiled. Each time she did this, River’s breath caught in his throat. “I really like you, River.”

I’m sorry to hear that.

Maybe he should have kissed her. All his life, he’d thought of kissing as nothing more than an obligation: a way that people used to show affection. It had always felt strange and dirty: but women enjoyed being kissed, and River wanted to be loved. Sometimes, he wondered what it felt like to crave sex, or to want to kiss a woman. He’d had sex before to appease other people, and it always left him feeling ill and unfulfilled. For most people, it was hard to imagine how love could exist without sex - and still everybody knew that you could have sex with someone you never loved at all.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,” River had said once, sitting in the basement of Zina’s Victorian home, after leaving the room following a sexually-charged scene on television. “It feels like everybody in the world wants to think about sex except for me.”

Zina was always kind to him. When he hid himself away, she’d always go to check that he was alright. “That’s not true.” She sat in the basement across from him, not yet out of her work clothes. “I have many, many friends who think of sex the same way you do. Some people are just disinterested.”

Despite their closeness in age, Zina was a lot more mature than him. He wouldn’t look at her. Zina always knew herself, and River was always confused. “How will anybody ever love me if I don’t want to have sex with them?”

After leaving the hospital, River took the bus to Stratford.

“When I was a little girl, I got bit by a wolf in the forest. It was a full moon. Ever since then, I’ve been terrified of the moon.” The day he’d met Wren in the breakfast room, River had taken an interest in her. She was timid, but had grown to trust him with her past. She sat on the floor of his room, hours after patients had been sent to bed, her legs crossed against the cold plastic floor. She had a soft face, and often second-guessed herself. “I can’t even look outside when the moon is out.”

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Wren had been vulnerable with him. Even to the people River was closest to, it was hard to be vulnerable. He was afraid of many things: abandonment, criticism, chaos. He rarely confessed these fears to other people. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he’d watched Wren. She’d been open. It was only fair that he be open too. “I’m afraid of being naked.”

It was something River had never said aloud before. He was afraid of being vulnerable - of letting somebody else get too close. This always led to people getting hurt. When River got too close to somebody, he became overcome by fear, and this never ended well.

When River arrived at home, he was alone. His bedroom, which hadn’t been cleaned in a while, smelled stale. He hadn’t had a drink in three months, and it felt strange to be sober. Sliding a hand-rolled joint from the kitchen table, he turned on the Playstation.

At night, River had been having strange dreams. His subconscious was often fantastical and cluttered, and it seemed he couldn’t find an escape even in his sleep. He dreamt most often of falling or flying: and sometimes both at once. When he grew tired of video games, he fell asleep on the plaid fold-out couch.

That night, he dreamt of Wren. She was named for a bird, and had two sisters who were named the same way. She had unusual compulsions, and had struggled with them during her time in the hospital. She’d felt guilty for this, as if it were her fault her brain worked the way it did. It was strange. River blamed himself for the way his mind behaved - but never would have dared blame a loved one for the same thing. Wren loved red pandas and tie dye, and dreamed of seeing the world. River’s easel, which sat in the middle of his small bedroom, was made of aluminum and could be folded for transport. During his stay in the hospital, he had turned twenty six, and Wren had promised to bake him a cake when she returned home.

When he woke, it was late in the afternoon. Music played from the living room, drifting up the stairs and in through River’s door. In the kitchen, Salem unloaded groceries. Since River had arrived in Stratford, he hadn’t been asked to pay for a single thing, and he felt strangely guilty about this. He supposed Salem didn’t really need him. He’d gotten along perfectly fine without River, after all. “Hey.”

He needed water, but rarely drank it. When he didn’t have alcohol, there was a sense of anxiety inside him. Sitting on a kitchen chair, he reached for a box of granola bars that had just been unpacked. “Hey, River.” Salem only listened to psychedelia. Sometimes, he did this after taking acid or mushrooms. “How’s it going?”

It was good to be home. In the same sense, the hospital had made River feel safe. “I met a girl.”

Salem wouldn’t judge him. He was probably the only one who wouldn’t. Zina, as she did last time, would tell him he needed to stop falling for girls in psych wards, as if River wasn’t in the psych ward too. It had been nearly four years since he had had a girlfriend - and this, like every other relationship he’d had, didn’t last long. Salem turned the music down. “What’s her name?”

The picture Wren had drawn sat on River’s dresser, her phone number already programmed into his phone. It was hard not to text it. It was hard to wait. “Wren.” He could have spoken about her until the sun went down. He could have thought about her eyes, or her smile, or the way she twitched her hands when she was nervous. River wasn’t always observant. When he liked someone, they took all of his attention. “She’s pretty. Her room was just down the hall from mine.” Wren was born in India, and practiced Hinduism. River hated religion. It was a matter of either overcoming trauma, or abandoning Wren. “We’re going to go on a date when she gets discharged.” The night before, he’d begun a painting of a red panda, to gift Wren when she returned home. She’d told River of a time when she visited Bhutan and saw red pandas in a conservation habitat, and how she had sat with them for hours. She had a calming presence, and likely could have soothed even the most anxious people. In fact, River knew she could. He’d seen it.

Finishing up with the groceries, Salem joined him at the table. “You’re in love with this girl, aren’t you?”

Wren loved to read, and to hike. River had known her for three months, and wondered how he had ever gotten along without her. Ever since leaving the hospital, he’d wondered what she was doing. “Maybe.” He felt vulnerable and exposed, and didn’t like the feeling. Being drunk made feelings like this much less uncomfortable. “Anyway… what did I miss? What’s up with you?” It was quiet. Aside from the quiet music playing from the living room, the brothers sat in silence. Salem hated silence. River could have lived in it.

“Not much.” Salem opened a bag of seaweed chips, took a handful. “Kioni’s pregnant. She came over the other day to tell me.”

River knew how Salem felt about kids. He’d been responsible enough over the years to take precautions, but River knew as well as anyone that nothing came without risk. It wasn’t his business. River’s curiosity got the better of him. Despite never meeting Kioni, he knew of her on a superficial level. “Is she keeping it?”

The music faded out; wind roared outside the kitchen window. “Yeah.”

“Shit.” River felt anxious, though he had no reason to. Digging through the cabinet beside the stove, he became frustrated by the tremors in his hands. When the music started up again, he trudged downstairs to continue work on his painting.