It wasn't that he thought his problems were less important than hers; but he had to admit, that on the scale of fucked up, hers took the cake ten times over. Hers were the kind of problems that he thought would take years to fully recover from, if she ever could, the kind of problems that he could listen to her talk about and understand her fury and her sorrow and sometimes, even wonder why she wasn't angrier. He justified not talking about his troubles with her by telling himself that she had enough to worry about, and besides, they'd sound trivial compared to what she'd been through this year.

He justified a lot of things in his life. He justified Natalie's drug use with what she'd been going through; he justified his own drug use with it's not like I'm smoking crack, and then, later, it's not like I do what Nat does; he justified staying with Natalie by hoping she would get better.

At least that, he knew, was true - she was getting better. He didn't tell her that his heart had nearly leapt out of his chest when he saw her arrive at the dance last week, nor did he tell her he'd waited in front of the school for two hours earlier while he waited to see if she would eventually come. He didn't tell her that his hands had been shaking slightly when they danced, and he was pretty sure she hadn't noticed.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn't tell her much of anything. He always listened, but never wanted to burden her on top of everything she had to deal with already.

He didn't tell her, and probably never would, that he'd arrived home that night after the dance to his father passed out on the couch in front of the pale light of a television screen, the room reeking of alcohol, and his mother in her bedroom, the door shut and locked, as was her way of dealing with everything that she didn't like to think about.

He'd knocked.

"Go away," A voice floated through the door. He winced at the sudden sound of his mother's tiny voice. When he was younger, he'd remembered her voice being much louder, but over the years it seemed to have shrunk to almost nothing.

"Mom? It's me."

"Henry?"

"Yeah." Who else?

"How was the dance?"

"It was nice." He said to the door. He hated this. He talked to her through a door almost as often as he talked to her face to face.

"Good. It's late; tell me all about it in the morning."

"Yeah, but mom?"

He waited at the door but no further response came, and it remained closed. He looked back down the hall to where he could still see the flickering light from the television, then back at the closed door, and knocked again.

"Go away." His mom said again.

He'd thought about telling Natalie, he had. He'd wanted to. But then his phone rang later that night.

"Henry?" Her voice had been unsteady, and he immediately became concerned.

"Natalie? What's going on?"

"My mom's gone."

"So is mine," he felt like saying, felt like shouting, but instead said, "It'll be okay, Nat."