“Tell me, Hael. What does it mean to have me here?” “It means I can be saved,” he replies in a rush, like the thought’s just occurred to him. This time, when he gives me that shit-eating grin of his, it feels genuine. “Fuck, maybe I could be a poet, too?” He moves through the middle of the room, underneath the light with the fuzzy white moths, and then stops just short of touching me. “Having you here tells me that maybe, just maybe”—he pauses to point at Batman’s logo on my borrowed shirt—“that the idea of good versus evil, of happy endings, of great romance … isn’t all bullshit. Possibility,
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