“I look like I know you.”
The words were almost inaudible.
“You did.”
“He looks happy.”
“You were.”
“He isn’t me.”
I said nothing.
Noah’s eye filled.
“I know that’s my face. I know those are my hands. But I look at him and he feels like someone who stole my body.”
My chest tightened.
“He didn’t steal anything.”
“He got you.”
“I’m still here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His voice broke.
“He got to want you. He got to know what that felt like.”
I moved closer, stopping beyond reach.
“Noah.”
“He got a home. He got friends. He got normal stupid grocery lists.”
His breathing sharpened.
“And I get photographs of him enjoying it.”
I wanted to take the strip away.
I wanted to destroy every image that hurt him and fill the space with softer truths.
Instead, I let him hold it.
“This is cruel,” he said.
“Yes.”
The answer startled him.
I met his gaze.
“What happened to you is cruel. Being shown evidence of a life you can’t remember is cruel. You don’t have to pretend otherwise for me.”
He wiped at his eye with the heel of his hand.
