‘“I'm sorry,” Stanford said, then repeated, “I’m sorry.”
Even though this was what he had once wanted. Every late night, he meticulously imagined Stanford’s apology. It was like an illusion, as if, if he could finally make Stanford say it, it would work like some kind of spell, repairing what was broken. But when it finally happened, everything only became painfully clearer: nothing could be undone. The way Stanford’s hands held his, those hands’ presence pulled reality down with an unsettling weight. The friction of breathing, the texture of the blanket, the sharpness of lunch stuck in his throat—all of it was unbearably real. “Are you asking me to forgive you?” he asked, disappointed.
“No,” Stanford said slowly, his voice regaining steadiness, more resolute than ever. “I don’t want your forgiveness.”
Stanley turned his head, looking at Stanford, his gaze scraping over his face inch by inch until finally landing on Stanford’s eyes. Hate me, Ford must be thinking, wearing his beautiful crown of thorns. They used to have the same eyes. When he was young, what he saw on Stanford’s face was the same as what he found when he stared at himself in the mirror. Then, as they grew older, they became different creatures, each marked by reality in random, divergent ways as they moved through the jungle. Stanford looked strange to him now; he couldn’t even remember what Ford had looked like as a child.
In that moment, he believed he no longer cared about family, betrayal, or Stanford. He believed he was born like Adam—naked and alone. He believed that it wasn’t Stanford who had abandoned him but that they were never meant to be together. That night’s conflict had only been an objective surgery, separating the two of them, turning a fused abnormality into two healthy individuals, No more shame, no more fear, no more disease.
He withdrew his hand, touched Stanford’s face, and his own blood dripped from his fingers, leaving a mark on Stanford’s cheekbone. “I don’t care,” he told Stanford.’
