Good boy

ALL ADULTS

He couldn't remember when he first understood that love was supposed to hurt. Maybe it was when his mother, having lashed him with a belt for a dirty plate, sat on the edge of his bed an hour later and kissed the red marks on his back, whispering, "You're my dearest, you're my gold." Or maybe it was when his father hurled the saltshaker against the wall, then silently watched little Elias gather the shards on his knees, and said, "Good boy," so warmly that Elias wanted to break something else.

By the time he reached university, he knew it for certain: warmth without pain was a lie. So when the dorms began buzzing with rumors about the strange kid who never said no to anyone, Elias felt no shame. He felt needed. They called him the public toilet, and he wore the nickname almost with pride. After all, even a toilet gets used every day.

And then someone showed up who didn't want to use him. And Elias, who had gotten so comfortable being a thing, suddenly discovered that things don't lose their minds from loneliness. But he was.