It turns out the Dashiell who was so rude to me on the hood of that car and the Dashiell I watch in the orchestra room every weekend are two very different people in my head. The Dash who kissed me was brash and awful. He broke something inside me and it fucking hurt. The Dash who plays piano in the dark is a silent ghost. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t mock. He stirs me to life the way he did outside the party, yes, but he has never rejected me afterwards. He simply plays. I simply listen. So I have to go. I’m still smarting from the way he dismissed me last night as I pad along the corridor on
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