I don’t know why. Why she wants to be friends with me, hang out with me. I’m not special. I’ve always been realistic about who I am, about my perfectly average, unexceptional trajectory. I’ve always been fine with it. But as she moves her fingers through my hair from behind me on the couch, humming some tune I can’t identify, I wonder if maybe I am special, and it only took someone else special to point it out to me.
