“Bronchitis,” he said next, shaking his head. “I’m not dying, after all.” Charlie took a deep, five-point-five-second breath. “And now I can’t even remember why I’m up on this stage. Or what I was talking about. Was it about how we should tell ourselves better stories about who we are? About how we shouldn’t rob ourselves of hope and possibility? About how light matters just as much as darkness—maybe more? Or was I maybe just rambling on about Emma Wheeler? Because, honestly, she’s—” Right then, I stepped into the reflected stage lights—close enough that he could see me. Our eyes met. And
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