I need comments like I need water. Tell me what you feeeeeel.

Relationships are an accursed waste of time. What I should do is drive out into the middle of the desert and live with the cacti, because at least they're honest about not being nice or sweet or huggable. Instead, I'm driving to Scott's house, formerly Scott, Alex, Chris, Hayden, Justin, Wyatt's, and my house. The streets are all familiar. The building looks the same. The car in the driveway is even flashier, albeit lonelier. He's home. According to Twitter, he got back this afternoon.

I have no idea what I'm going to say. I'm not even sure I'll be able to get him to open the door, much less listen to me, but I do know that if I sit here in my not-so-flashy but highly practical Tesla trying to think of a strategy, I'll be here all week. I park. I step out of the car. I feel a sickening sense of nostalgia as I follow the path to the door, the path Scott once colored completely yellow with chalk for Alex's surprise birthday party. The plants are better cared for than they were in the frat house days. Scott probably has a lawn service now that he's not surrounded by large men who love nothing more than sweat.

Why am I even trying this? I knock. I always forget there's a doorbell, but he hears and opens the door. Scott. Scott is standing right in front of me. Scott. I forgot, somehow I forgot, how tall he is. He looks old. "Mitch."

I can't answer. My mouth is open, but the words that were supposed to come out still aren't assembling themselves. He reaches out, and his fingers stop a few inches from my hair. His brow creases and his jaw shifts. He steps aside. "Come in."

I follow silently into what still feels like my own home. "Coffee?" he offers. "Tea?" He moves a chair behind me and I sit mechanically at the bar as he moves into the kitchen. It smells like home. "San Pellegrino?"

"Yeah," I croak out. My heart is beating too fast and I feel like a frozen rabbit waiting to be devoured. Any moment, the universe is going to realize I'm not supposed to be here and something bad is going to happen.

"I never thanked you." He grasps the refrigerator door. His knuckles are bruised bright red, like he's just punched somebody. He finds me a bottle of cold sparkling water from the part of the fridge that used to always be stocked with beer. "You saved my life."

"Oh." I can't seem to get more than one word out at a time.

"So thank you." He's twisting the bottle open and pouring from it into a glass in front of me. He's a foot away from me. I could touch him. His eyes have found mine and locked on. They aren't like the way I remember them when I look at Val's. They're as blue as ever, but they're too red, like he's been crying too. He breaks eye contact only to examine my face in fascination. Do I look old? I look different. He hasn't changed much, though. He has more muscle, but I'm avoiding looking, medium-length hair, usually styled wavy in public, but swept up now in a familiar SnapBack, more ear piercings, but only the same two earrings as always, neatly shaped brows, perhaps because some stylist didn't realize they're invisible, and a slightly leaner face, as if his jaw weren't sharp enough already.

The pitch of the water pouring into my cup is getting higher. I look down just in time to stop him from letting it overflow. "You're welcome," I answer. Good. Two words. Progress. Keep going. "I'm glad you're not dead." Wow. Way to go, Mitch Grassi. I used to pride myself for my eloquence, but now I'm thinking I might be significantly better off with my lips superglued together. I could still hum. "I mean, I, you, uh-"

"Thanks," he cuts me off mercifully. "I'm glad you're glad I'm alive. I wouldn't blame you if you weren't."

"No, don't-" Don't think like that. But I don't say it this time, because I need to stop telling him how to think as if it's easy, as if he can just flip a switch and see things from the bright side and be happy. "Under no circumstances will I ever not want you alive and well."

"I saw Alex."

The knuckles. Of course. Scott is the reason Alex was gone, the reason he came back with a bloody nose and a black eye, the reason he was crying. Scott's significantly larger than me, but maybe I can still strangle him to death if I'm quick. "I'm going to kill you."

"So much for not wanting me dead. It was nice while it lasted."

"Anyone who lays a hand on my boyfriend-"

"You couldn't keep your hands off mine," he interrupts tiredly.

I don't know why I'm here. I stand. Maybe I can sleep in my three-wall bedroom set in Hollywood. I practically live there anyway. Human companionship is overrated. "No!" he exclaims in panic. "I'm sorry. Have a seat. Drink. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. Sit. Drink. Relax. I'm sorry." I really should have followed my instinct and joined the cacti, but I sit anyway. I don't know how I'm going to relax.

"He said," Scott begins, "that you told me the truth."

"He what? He told you he lied?" Scott nods and stares at me intently. "I thought he, I mean, he told me, but I didn't think, I mean... What did he say?"

"That you were innocent. That I accused you falsely, and he never touched you before, or you him."

"He came to you?"

"He was here waiting when I got home. Wouldn't leave. Needed to talk, even after I..." Our eyes fall for a moment to his fist. "Anyway, he wouldn't go, not 'til you texted."

"He came to you and he told you the truth?"

"No. He told me you didn't... I don't know. I don't know what to believe."

Alex told Scott. He didn't wait for me to do it. He confessed himself, and not just to me, but to the person he hurt most. Maybe it doesn't change anything, but it matters. Scott may not believe us, but he's talking to me, he wants to talk to me, and that's thanks to Alex. It's not like it counts for anything under the circumstances, but still, I feel bad for not at least giving Alex credit for handling it with integrity now that he's finally, after all this time, decided to come clean. I assumed I was the first to know, but he was right to actually do something about it before unloading it on me. I have to give him credit for even admitting it at all. He could have just never said a word.

The thing is, I'm going back to him. I know that deep down, and I could toy with the concept of leaving him, but it would only hurt me. I can't live with the cacti, and even if I could, they aren't Alex. I could live alone, and I could be perfectly happy all by myself, but I want Alex. We're going to work this out. He thinks I'm gone, and people would probably tell me I'm selling myself short or I'm blinded by love or he doesn't deserve a second chance after what he did, and they'd all have valid concerns, but I know Alex, and I know we can overcome even this. We're not going to pretend it never happened. We're going to work through it and we're going to be stronger because of it.

"Mitch?"

"Yes, Scott?"

"I need you."