“At the beginning of the year, I lost four relatives,” I admitted. Why, after not so much as a few words over three years, was I being so open now? “And a month ago I lost a close friend.” The words just kept coming. “And I’ve never really been alright since I was sick.”

“Sick?” His eyes grew. There really were tears now, tears of worry. I had to reassure him, but I couldn’t lie. I wouldn’t let myself lie to him.

“Yeah. I was sick about a year ago,” I explained. “Bad sick. I’m over it, great now, but I almost died then.” The words were gushing again. “I don’t know what I had. They knocked me out with meds before they told my mom.”

“And remembering your brush with death is painful, right?” I nodded, happy that someone understood. He shifted his gaze to the ground.

“Are you alright?” I looked at him with the same stare he’d given me. He shook his head and turned back to me.

“My grandmother died six weeks ago. She’d been having heart problems.” His voice lowered; he sounded like he was going to cry.