I’ll Carry You - Rudrangshu Sengupta
We are in the field behind the campus—
the one no one else goes to.
Just puddles.
Bottle caps.
Wildflowers.
He’s cold.
I take off my hoodie,
wrap it around his shoulders.
“You’ll catch a fever,” I say.
His breath is clouding,
but he still laughs.
And I say:
“I’ll carry you, if I have to.”
And he says,
“Jupiter, don’t be dramatic.”
And I say,
“I was born to lift you.”
He looks small in that moment.
Like I could tuck him behind my ribs
and he’d stay safe
forever.
The sun comes in sideways—
August light.
The grass leans toward us.
He reaches out—
taps my cheek.
Says:
“You’re warm today.”
And I say—
“I’ll carry you, if I have to.”
We’re in the field.
He’s cold.
I take off my hoodie—
“You’ll catch a fever,” I say.
His breath is clouding.
He laughs.
“Jupiter, don’t be dramatic.”
“I was born to lift you.”
The puddles glint again.
Too sharp this time.
And the wildflowers
smell like burnt wires.
Too…
fast.
His face is softer—
not wrong,
but off.
His voice is lagging.
He taps my cheek again.
Again.
…again.
“You’re warm today.”
“You’re… warm today?”
“Warm. Today.”
“I’ll carry you, if I have to.”
The field behind the campus.
He’s missing a shoe.
His laugh—
on loop.
The sun resets—
August.
August.
August.
And he says:
“Jupiter, don’t be dramatic.”
Only he says it like
he doesn’t remember
what it means.
And I say—
“I’ll carry—”
I’ll carr—
I’ll—
…but my mouth doesn’t finish.
Something is deleting
the end of the sentence.
The wildflowers blur.
The grass leans the wrong way.
He turns to me.
No face.
No voice.
A pause.
And a sound.
A bicycle bell.
Underwater.
