“I never wanted you to hate me,” he whispers. “I never wanted you to leave. I only meant to tease you until you truly noticed me. I would wait every day for the moment you walked into class with your polka-dot socks and your cute sweaters and pigtails—it was like my day didn’t even begin until I saw you. I loved the games you invented and the stories you came up with and your laugh, how it bubbled out of you and you could hear it from down the corridor. All I could think about was you, all the time, and how funny and sweet and beautiful you were—”

“Beautiful?” I repeat, staring at him. “Are you sure you’re not remembering someone else?” He has to be—he can’t possibly be describing the version of me I hate the most, the version I’ve tried to kill off, the one I’m so embarrassed of I can’t even bring myself to look at old photos without wincing.

“I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen,” he says, somehow without an ounce of sarcasm. “You’ve always been beautiful—beautiful like the stars are, like Shanghai is. I could never get sick of looking at you. But back then I just … I didn’t know what I could possibly do to make you so much as look my way, and again, it’s awful, but I thought—I thought that was simply how it worked. My own father had told me that being in love meant fighting with each other all the time, and I was foolish and naive enough to believe him. Only later did I realize how completely, utterly wrong he was—and how wrong I was to have resorted to tricks and childish teasing when I should’ve just gone for it. Treated you like you were precious and perfect because you always have been.”

“There’s no way,” I say, shaking my head fast. I would actually be less stunned if he revealed that he’s a vampire. “There’s— I mean, how? Literally, how? I don’t even know what you’re talking about—”