The Trial Run

It's past midnight. Maybe closer to one. The only light in the room is the soft blue wash of the TV.

We finished eating a while ago. Now, our trays are stacked neatly near the door, long forgotten. I'm propped up on the bed, the covers pulled over my lap. A soft sleeve covers the end of my leg—not for her, but for me.

Across the room, Margot's sitting on her bed. Cross-legged. Same TV show. Same unreadable expression. The volume is way louder than necessary but she's still reading the captions. Her eyes track the words, quick and steady, like she's studying for a test she never signed up for.

I'm not even watching the show. I'm watching her watch the show. Or more like, watching her read the show.

And somehow, that's more comforting than anything I've felt in years.

I still can't believe I told her. I can't believe she knows now. Not just about the leg, but the whole thing. Sixteen. Cancer. Baseball. The loss, the choice, the pain. Everything.

And she didn't flinch.

I keep replaying that part in my head. Not just the questions, but the way she looked at me. Like I was still the same person. Like nothing had shifted. Like it was fine. I still can't wrap my head around it.

The relief I felt after the shower was physical. Like peeling off a layer of my life I forgot I was wearing. I took my time in there, let the water run hot, let my shoulders drop. When I finally came out, I had my crutches under one arm, my dirty clothes in the other, and my leg tucked tight beneath the crook of my elbow like it was no more than a folded towel.

She didn't blink. She didn't look away. She didn't act like anything had changed.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to hide.

I'd say I didn't care if she flinched, but that'd be a lie. I'll always care. But tonight, it just felt good to be seen.

Now, I'm sitting here, staring at the TV but watching her. Her hair's down again, damp at the ends from washing it. Her bare legs are stretched out in front of her. She looks so relaxed and completely herself.

I don't want to break the quiet. I don't want to change the feeling in the room.

But I also really want to know.

"What are you thinking right now?"

She doesn't move. Doesn't even glance at me.

There's a moment, then she says, "What?" She's clearly distracted. Maybe she didn't hear me.

I try again. A little louder, watching her this time.

"What are you thinking?"

Her eyes flick over to me, locking on my mouth to read the words.

She blinks, then pauses.

"I was wondering if there's a word for how your foot gets itchy when you remember you don't have one."

I laugh—an actual laugh, quick and surprised.

"Wow," I say. "That's dark."

She smiles.

"Sorry. But I was thinking about that."

"You know, if there is a word for it, I bet the Germans invented it."

"Yeah. Probably something that sounds like a sneeze and means 'phantom limb foot itch that reminds you of the void.'"

I laugh again. This time, I don't stop smiling.

She leans back against the headboard, arms behind her head, sighing dramatically.

"Also, I've been wondering if all prosthetic legs are waterproof. Like, can you shower with that one?"

"No. This is the regular one. I have a waterproof one back home. It's kind of bulky, though."

"So, like, you have an off-road leg?"

"Basically."

"Do you have a pink one?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"A pink one. I just feel like if I had a prosthetic leg, I'd want options. Fashion legs. Like one that matches your tie, or has glitter on it."

I shake my head. "You're unhinged."

"Admit it. You're now seriously considering a glitter leg."

"I am not."

"Liar."

We go back and forth like that for a while about leg accessories, cupholders, holiday-themed attachments, whether I can store snacks in there. I cannot.

Somewhere in the middle of a joke about a glow-in-the-dark Halloween leg, I realize the entire weight I've been carrying has thinned out. Not disappeared completely. But lightened. Like a muscle unclenched.

And I realize I don't want this night to end.

But it does quietly.

At some point, Margot stops talking. I look over and she's curled sideways on the bed, one arm tucked under her head, eyes closed. The TV light flickers across her face. She didn't even pull the blanket up.

I watch her for a long second.

Then I push myself up, reach over to her nightstand, and grab the remote. I turn off the TV, which was muted a while ago.

The room goes still, and I finally sleep.