“Not really. You have the same fight as her, but you’re different than she was. Do you want to know the truth?” I nod, and he swallows, like the truth will cause him pain. “When my mom sent me a picture of you, I couldn’t stop looking,” he finally says, his voice low, rough around the edges. “I kept staring, wondering what you’d be like—how you’d move, how you’d speak. There was something in your eyes, something strong. But the picture didn’t do you justice. It never could.”
