“Because,” I say, unable to meet his eyes, “everyone in your life seems to take something from you, and that’s not what friends do. I guess I’d rather be your friend.” It feels too intimate, too earnest. I want to make a joke, find a way to lighten things up. But I see something in his face that hasn’t been there before—as if he really sees me, as if he might even trust me—and I can’t stand to ruin it. For once, I keep all the awkward jokes inside me. And then I walk away, wishing, more than anything, I could stay.
