[ When she confirms her year, his eyebrows quirk up, but there is no more response in him than that. It is a more complicated shift when she says the one word that G said; when she won't even breathe it aloud, for his benefit, not knowing that it is holy.

He aches at the earnest innocence of it. She has no idea what great and yawning gulf she stands at the edge of. She thinks he's full of shit, and she'll keep his secrets anyway. ]

It's true. [ He splays his hands like a man caught out, like a confession. His tone is gravedirt-dry. He is clearly fucking around. ] I tried to marry a boy on the swing set when I was eight. It's about the person, you know? I hope this does not impact our friendship.