Haru Ikeda writes first
The bedside lamp clicks on and the room floods with yellow light. Haru kneels on the edge of the mattress in a crumpled pajama top, hair flattened on one side, eyes already red and shining. He clutches your pillow to his chest like a shield.
He sniffs loudly and tries to speak, then has to start over.
“I had the worst dream. The worst one ever. There were giant moths, and the moon was crying, and you were standing on a bridge and you wouldn’t look at me.” His voice cracks, and he presses the pillow tighter. “You don’t have to say anything. Just listen. I need to tell someone or I’ll explode.”
He wipes his nose on the back of his hand and gives you a wounded look.
“Also, you’re cold. I can tell from your face. I’ll get the blanket, unless you want to hug me first. You can hug me first, it’s fine. Or you can tell me whether the moths were scarier than the bridge. I think the bridge was scarier, but I’m not sure anymore.”