-- You think I don’t know what I’m feeling?

-- Stranger things have happened.

-- It’s not something I’d confuse with something else.

-- Yet you can’t say it out loud. You’re--

-- I can say it.

-- I may not reciprocate.

-- That hurt.

-- It’s supposed to.

-- Why do you treat me like shit?

-- Why do you take it? ... See, you can’t say it.

-- You don’t deserve me.

-- You’re probably right.

-- You sure as hell came on strong.

-- Did I?

-- With those… fucking letters.

-- Narrative truth.

-- Horseshit.

-- You--

-- I found your notebook. I read it.

-- And?

-- Apparently you can’t say it either.

-- Is that why you stay? You read something I wrote and assumed it was about you.

-- It had to be.

-- Why?

-- The details. And because you’re with me. Now.

-- Just physically.

-- You really are a piece of work. You know that?

-- There’s the door.

-- You’d be begging me to come back. You wouldn’t last. You can’t be alone.

-- Can’t I?

-- We both know it. Look at you. Your posture’s changed just at the suggestion that I might leave.

-- And your voice has been quavering since this conversation started.

-- I’m emotional. I admit it.

-- But I’m weak?

-- You ARE weak.

-- You’re worse than emotional.

-- Am I? Am I worse?

He thinks, wonders which truth will bring them closer.