"Eat," B.l story

I met Walker in third grade. His hair was bright red, impossible to miss. He always wore a green shirt under his uniform—had to own more than one. We hung out the way kids do: trading Pokémon cartridges, daring each other to lick batteries, filling wide-ruled pages with comics about zombie hamsters. Nothing dramatic. Just friendship—the kind that sneaks up like a song you didn’t realize you’d memorized.

One night, I went over to his house. I was nervous, but in a vague way—a low hum in my chest that warned me, silently, not to say the wrong thing. Walker’s mom wore slippers shaped like clouds and called me “honey” without asking. His dad handed me a chicken nugget shaped like a stegosaurus. “We like dinosaurs around here,” he said. I nodded—I wanted to belong, even if I couldn’t look him in the eye.

Walker dragged me upstairs. His room smelled like vanilla soda and sock lint. Posters everywhere: outer space, Godzilla, a girl riding a giant mechanical wolf. Without asking what games I liked, he tossed me a controller. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. Silence never felt heavy between us; it just was.

As I was getting ready to leave, I noticed a lamp on his nightstand—its base sealed with glitter. When you shook it, the flakes floated like stars in molasses. “Used to be my sister’s,” Walker said quietly, then shrugged. I let the moment be, just watching the shimmer settle.

Tying my shoes by the door, I heard it—a sharp crack, fist meeting hollow plastic wall, all brittle and tired. Walker’s brother was sprawled in the hallway, arms flung out, face flattened on the linoleum. He wasn’t speaking, not really—just making noise, bouncing between frustration and something older. He looked way too old for tantrums. Tall. Shaving-age tall.

“Just ignore him,” Walker muttered, stepping right over him. “He’s mentally challenged.”

From then on, Jun was invisible to us.

Sometimes Jun stood watching from the doorway while we played games, peeking in like he wanted to join but didn’t know the password. Walker would toss a pillow at him—not meanly, just as habit. “Go on, Jun. Beat it.” I didn’t think much of it then. None of us did.

But at eighteen, things shifted. Maybe in me; maybe everywhere.

Jun started sitting with us. Never playing, never speaking, just folding himself onto the carpet with a plush dinosaur in his arms, watching—not the screen, but somewhere near it. If you called his name, he didn’t answer. But he stayed. Sometimes presence means more than participation ever could.

The first day I really spent time with Jun began at the doorway, bumping against each other as everyone was trying to leave—arguing sushi versus tacos, nobody fully dressed, angling for the fastest escape to food. Jun stood there in his hoodie, even though it was sweltering out, feet in orthopedic grippers, sleeves twisted. Silent, hovering.

Walker herded him back with a sigh, gentle as shooing a dog.

Jun’s shoes were fastened with Velcro and knotted tight underneath—like he’d gotten ready early, hoping.

“Look,” I said before thinking, “He already has his shoes on.”

Walker just gave me a tired look, no answer. Somehow, that stung worse than “No.”

Then heat bloomed in my chest. Not courage—just something that felt correct.

“I’m going to the mall with Jun instead of you!”

I grabbed Jun’s hand—cool from the AC—and led him outside, hands shaking as I unlocked the car. Jun climbed in without a word, backpack settled in his lap. Inside: a disposable camera, a neon frog, freeze-dried strawberries. Nonsense, unless you knew him; then it made perfect sense.

Seventeen and still running on borrowed confidence, I tried to make small talk on the drive. “Do you like sushi?” “Favorite color?” Jun just looked out the window, somewhere impossible to reach.

When we parked, I waited for him to open his door. He didn’t. Just sat, fingers curled around that backpack. So I waited, too, until he finally opened up and stepped out, not beside me but trailing just behind—a shadow deciding whether to trust the day.

At the food court, Jun grabbed my arm—gentle, urgent.

“Hmmm,” he said, voice rough and loud, like the sound surprised him.

He pulled me toward the coffee stand. He didn’t drink coffee; he just stared at the menu, as if it might bite. His eyes flicked from lights to people to noise, caught between being spooked and enchanted.

I wondered if I’d made a mistake, if Jun wasn’t ready. The thought felt like failing at something I couldn’t name.

“I want to go to Spencer’s,” I tried.

No answer. But he turned and walked that way, like my words belonged to him now. So I followed—Jun leading with silence.

At the back of the store, I browsed vibrators, wondering if I should buy one, before I noticed Jun examining fishnet stockings.

“Those legs are pretty, right?” I joked.

A light flickered on behind his eyes. He looked at his own thighs, thoughtful. “Sexy,” he said, voice simple and pleased. I laughed on accident, and Jun bought the stockings, tucking them into his backpack. He was an adult—a man needs a hobby.

Afterward, Jun grabbed my arm again.

“Hmmm… vol… vol… cano. Val...como. Val-cono.”

“Volcano?” I guessed.

He nodded, snapping his fingers, beaming. I figured he meant the volcano-themed ice cream spot, or maybe it was a meme, or an idea I’d missed. But Jun led us straight out—across parking lots, down sidewalks, hoodie bouncing, shoes clapping like applause. I didn’t decide to follow; my legs just did.

He stopped at a tiki bar—neon torches, bamboo walls, painted stone faces grinning under a glowing sign: **THE VOLCANO BAR AND GRILL**.

Jun pointed up, triumphant. “Valcano.”

I laughed—delighted, exhausted. Jun didn’t laugh, just looked proud. Then he squared his shoulders and walked toward the door.

And so I followed him, again.

After we ate, I drove him home. We stood by the porch. Jun struggled to say something, voice small.

“Bye, D.”

Just that—soft, shaped like trust. Not my full name. Not a nickname. I could see a soy sauce streak on his shirt, rice clinging to his sleeve. But for a second, he looked happy, like he’d pinned a good memory to a loud day.

“Bye, Jun,” I answered, matching his quiet.

He lingered, fingers grazing the porch railing, before slipping inside.

I stayed for a moment—just standing there, trying to understand how today had changed something in both of us. Even if I couldn’t say exactly what it was.