He didn’t look away. “The second I couldn’t picture opening a door to a room you weren’t in,” he said. “It scared me. Then it started making sense.”
She swallowed. “I don’t miss the woman who thought she had to chew glass to feel alive.”
“I miss her in one way,” he said. “She got you here.”
“You always have the right sentence.”
“I learned them watching you say the right thing when it mattered.”
She laughed quietly and rolled onto her back. The ceiling’s harmless cracks made constellations. “We sound like a book.”
He shifted to face her. “We sound like people who’ve been busy not dying.”
Fair, she thought, and pressed her palms to her eyes until colored static sizzled. When she dropped them, the room swam white and then settled into Streetlight again.
The soft part of the evening sn
