“When I need to have a word with Him or when Ireland needs a prayer during the World Cup games. My turn to ask a question.” I already roll my eyes, psychic that I am. “Why don’t you like your scar?” Birthmark, I itch to correct. “How do you know I don’t like it?” “You didn’t want to talk about it,” he says. I sigh. “There’s nothing to like about it. It’s ugly. It stands out.” “It’s the most beautiful thing about you. It makes you more than a generically beautiful face,” he says. I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it. “My turn. Do you sometimes feel like we’re all just burning alone?”
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