“Well…if you’re worried I’m going to fall in love with you and cling on to your every move, you don’t have to worry.” “You’re not in love with me?” he asks and it seems like nothing more than a simple inquiry. “No, I don’t love you, Victor.” He nods, completely accepting it. “Good. Because I’m not in love with you, either.” I don’t think either of us truly knows what the word means in this kind of situation. We both display the same accepting, yet somehow confused expressions.
