As I turned away, I felt his hand on my arm. “Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?” “What?” I asked. “Why?” “I don’t know.” He dropped his hand, then looked at me. “You just seem…I don’t know. Not yourself, or something. Everything all right?” And here I’d thought I was hiding it. But like the difference between the picture on Mallory’s wall and my face in the picture he took, this contrast—between who I’d been and who I felt myself becoming, again, with each step I took or was forced to take backwards—was obvious. To both of us. Which was why this time, I didn’t hesitate and try to be honest,
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