“I have something for you,” he says with his hands still on my waist. “It’s just something I made when I couldn’t sleep and was thinking about you.” “You were thinking about me?” He kneels and opens his duffel bag. “I think about you a lot. Why does that surprise you?” “I don’t know. No one has ever told me they were thinking about me before. I thought I was just… un-think-about-able.” He studies my face as he stands. “That’s fucked up.”
