“You smiled more.”
“I did.”
“Because of me?”
Leah went still.
I answered because he deserved truth without performance.
“Often.”
Noah’s eye shone.
He looked back at the photograph.
“I don’t remember making you happy.”
“You don’t have to carry that right now.”
“But I did.”
“Yes.”
His breath left shakily.
The album began to tremble in his hand.
Leah took it before it slipped.
“That’s enough,” she said.
“No.”
“You’re tired.”
“I want to know.”
“You can look tomorrow.”
“I’m missing everything.”
His voice rose.
The light above his bed seemed suddenly too bright. He squeezed his eye shut and pressed his right hand to his forehead.
“I know,” Leah whispered.
“No, you don’t.”
“Noah—”
“You had the years. He had them. Everyone keeps showing me things like I should be grateful, but I wasn’t there.”
“You were,” I said.
He turned on me.
“Then where am I?”
