I did not know what to do with that.
Compliments about appearance made me suspicious.
Compliments about survival made me tired.
But this was different.
It felt too specific to be pity.
Later, we sat at a table near the back while everyone else shouted lyrics on the dance floor. Caleb brought me water. Not punch. Water. He said the punch tasted like melted candy and bad decisions.
I laughed harder than the joke deserved.
Maybe because I had forgotten what it felt like to laugh without checking who was watching.
We talked about little things.
Music.
Books.
How our school smelled permanently like floor wax and cafeteria fries.
He told me he used to play piano but quit when he got too busy with football. I told him I used to draw before the fire. He asked why I stopped. I said because my left hand cramped after skin grafts and because every face I tried to draw looked like mine.
He didn’t say he was sorry.
I liked that.
Sorry was a blanket people threw over discomfort.
Caleb only nodded.
“What did you draw?”
“Mostly houses.”
“Houses?”
“I liked windows.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
