“I’m not trying.” He takes a shallow sip. “We’ve both collected plenty of pieces of each other by now.”

Thora frowns. Then she laughs.

“What?” he asks.

She smiles ruefully. “I was about to say that’s bullshit. But look at me. Patiently feeding you soup while you rail against the injustice of the universe.” She looks away, holding out her fist for Félicette to rub up against. “I spent so long defining myself in opposition to you. At first it was subconscious, but later—I guess I was scared. Of how much I’d taken from you.”

Santi looks at her, remembering a letter he once wrote. I don’t know how much of me is me anymore and how much of me is you. It’s almost a comfort. When he goes, part of him will remain, as long as Thora is alive.

“Don’t follow me,” he says, on impulse.

“What?”

“Stay.” He takes her hand. “Use the time you have. Don’t risk it just for the chance I’ll come back.”

“Would that be enough meaning for you? Sacrificing yourself so I could get out?” She shakes her head. “You really should have been a martyr. How you would have enjoyed being eaten by lions.” She takes the soup bowl from him. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll decline, if it’s all the same to you. We don’t tend to do well when we stop talking to each other.”

He shifts away from her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m referring to the time I decided to throw your cat and your wife into a void and you decided to stab me.” She smiles. “Besides. What if I get out, and then I still can’t wake you up?” Her brow furrows. “Both of us, or neither of us. Okay?”

It’s not okay, but he’s too tired to argue. He sinks back into the sofa, eyes closing.

When he wakes, Thora is there. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “How am I alive? How are you here?”

She pokes his arm gently. “That was not a philosophical question. Can I get a serious answer?”

Santi feels his grip on this world loosening. The Thora in front of him seems more and more like a mirage. “The serious answer is that it’s serious.” He swallows. “I don’t think I have much time left.”

She nods. “Okay,” she says, her voice hoarse. He understands. They have lost each other so many times, but this is different: neither of them knows for sure if they are coming back.

Santi decides it doesn’t matter if he knows. He chooses to hope. A fragile, tentative hope, compared to the deep faith of his old, sure self, but all the more precious for that. “In real life,” he says. “Do you think we’re friends?”