“Jas?” he asked two octaves above a whisper. That earned him a backward glare from the people seated in front of us, and a chorus of shushes from behind. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but allowed my legs to fall open, my knee coming to rest along his. When we were boys, we’d link our pinkies under the dinner table. I’d had to learn how to eat left-handed. When we were near it had been impossible not to touch, not to hold, not to love.
shut up im crying
