We run. We’ve run almost every morning for the past few months, ever since that early January thaw, when he first moved here. He looks different today; eyebrows scrunched together, shoulders stiff, head bowed. He seems years older, like thirty instead of sixteen.                 

We don’t speak. We just breathe. His every exhale sounds sharp, harsh, angry. I have never seen him upset before. I wonder what his problem is, but I don’t ask. I never ask. People appreciate that in me. Reticence is a gift, I’ve found.                 

We go three miles. Early bird commuters stare at us while they sit at red lights. I’m sure there must be other runners out at six in the morning, but the people driving by have only us to watch: a boy and a girl loping side by side, the boy surly and stony-faced, and the girl glancing at him every now and then, wondering.                 

I wish the people who drive by could see us the way we are every other morning, with him wearing a faint smile, his movements fluid and relaxed, and me moody and cold beside him.                 

But today, he frowns, and I wonder. Is he angry? Is it because he had to move, had to leave home, and come to this god-forsaken Massachusetts wasteland? Does he miss Chicago? Does he miss his mother? Does he hate her for sending him here? Does he hate living with his dad? Does he regret telling me his entire life story?                

We leave the maze of roads, and sprint into the town park. The grass is damp and mostly dead, and the man-made pond is brown. It must be the ugliest park on the east coast.                

As I turn my eyes away from the ugliness, he slows to a jog, then a walk, then an odd stagger before collapsing onto the grass. I skid to a halt, and sit down beside him. He pulls his knees to his chest and stares out at the glassy, still water before us.                 

“So, um, what’s wrong?” I ask conversationally. We’ve had meaningful conversations before, but they’ve never any required emotional sensitivity. I feel out of my element.                 

He shakes his head, hides his face in his knees, and grips his wavy, overlong black hair. His shoulders spasm, once, twice. I can feel my face contort in horror. “Are… are you… crying?” I ask.                 

His shoulders spasm again. His breathing sounds… wet.                

“Shit. You’re crying.” I swear again. I haven’t cried since I was eight. And that was when I broke my right foot. Emotional sensitivity is not my forte.                 

He’s crying. God, I’ve never even heard him raise his voice before. I almost wish he would start yelling at me, shouting, blaming me for all of his problems. Because then I could just sit there and take it, in my habit of silence. But with crying… action must be taken. Soothing words, a pat on the back, a corny joke to encourage laughter.                 

As always, silence seems safest, so I just lay my arm across his shoulders. I can feel them quaking, can hear his sharps inhales and shaky exhales. We sit for a couple minutes, in this stiff, one-sided sort of embrace, until his shoulders stop shaking, and his breathing evens out. He lifts his head, looks over at me. His eyes are red, and strangely critical. “You look very, very afraid,” he says hoarsely.                 

I don’t reply, just ask, “What’s wrong?”                 

He smirks. “I’m sad because you lack the social skills necessary to deal with tears. And because you’re a terrible hugger.”                

“Really?” I ask. “Are they good at hugging in Chicago?”                

He frowns again. “No, they’re terrible huggers in Chicago. All over Illinois, actually. But you, my dear, are the worst hugger I have ever encountered.” We stand up. He rubs his eyes, which are now as desolate as before.                

“The worst?” I repeat. I take no offense. I’m only glad he’s stopped crying.                 

“The worst.” He still frowns. His eyes are distant.                 

"Then teach me. Teach me to do it right.”                

He doesn’t laugh as I was hoping. He just stares at me. I open my arms. “I’m serious.”

Hesitantly, his arms snake around my waist, and pull me closer. He holds me tight, tight enough that I can feel his palms against the small of my back. I return the embrace. My hands come up to rest on his shoulder blades, and I lean my head against his. I can’t remember the last hug I gave or received. Again, I feel out of my element. But this time, I don’t mind.

When he speaks again, his voice, though muffled in the crook of my neck, sounds lighter, with none of the heaviness that was there before. “You’re a fast learner.”