“The bugs, the job, the nemeses stuff. You don’t have to tell me the truth, but you can stop pretending.” “Pretending what?” His chest heaves. “I might not remember my name, or anything about who I am. But I could never be near you and not know exactly what you are to me.” A second later, he falls asleep, leaving me to stare at the chevron pattern of the couch for eight straight hours as I try not to enjoy the heat of his body against mine, desperate to decipher exactly what his last words meant.
