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That was the thing about Surit: he had high expectations, and you found yourself living up to them.
How boring to have the same thoughts about how you were a stain on the universe for the thousandth time. He was tired of it. Tennal was sick of being sick of himself.
It was summer in Exana. And if Tennal could have read every mind in this city—in this sector—he still wouldn’t have swapped with any of them in favor of being here, now, kissing Surit under the shade of a tree on this street. On this quiet afternoon, under this patchwork of shade, on this flawed, fractious planet where he was born, Tennal’s own head finally felt like home.
