he asks quietly, “Are you ever going to let me hear your voice?” I release his arm to stare up at him, at the slight furrow in his brow, at the disappointment I can taste off his posture. “Are you ever going to call me Winter?” I murmur back. He shakes his head once. I want to cry. I want to fall off the chair and become one with the carpet. But instead, I say, “Then you’ll never hear my voice, Adrian. Because it’s mine, not Lia’s.”
