He looked at her, but she didn’t understand. He looked away, as if there were something more interesting in the distance—he was so busy thinking about what to say next that he forgot to squint. He was near-sighted, and she knew that.
Whether she was impatient with his posturing or annoyed by the uneasiness, he couldn’t tell. But it reminded him of all the other times he’d said goodbye to her. Later that night, when he climbed into bed, he listened to his clock quantify the wasting of time. He overanalyzed, as usual—that something as small as the awkwardness of their goodbyes was a sign that maybe she loved him, too. #
