He goes back to staring at the sky. His breaths are unhurried, lazy almost, like he’s soaking up the night one puff of air at a time. Even sprawled like this, he looks powerful. As if he’s the only guy in this whole wide world. The rest of us are inconsequential. Or maybe it’s not power. It’s the loneliness. Has he always been lonely? I can’t remember. My hatred for him was so strong that I never paid attention to anything below the surface.
