They thought so, yes. They don't say anything else for a moment, and they don't look at them either. They drop their hand and let it fall to their side once more, brushing the tips of bandaged fingers against their pants, stained and torn and unwashed.

"He doesn't talk to a lot of people about anything. We stopped being friends, you know. Me and him." And they make it about themself again, don't they? Of course they do. They keep talking, the words dull and even, before they can allow that train of thought to steal them away. "It was easier. We just didn't have to say anything to each other."