“Don’t lie,” I say. “You want me to say that I like you.” The words come out before I can stop them. “You want me to say that every time I have a bubble tea now, I can’t help thinking of your sad boba-drinking technique. That I sped through three hundred pages of Life: A User’s Manual with a confusing sense of urgency because you lent it to me. That I’ve read all about Tommy John surgery even though I don’t give two shits about baseball because I wanted to know if you would be okay.”
