He flushes when he sees me.

“Cillian,” I say, my voice a whisper.

“Cillian?” says Nelle beside me.

Kiera comes over and says, “Hiya, I’m Kiera,” to everyone, then to me, “Lana, this is Cillian.”

He holds out his hand to shake mine, giving a tight-lipped, embarrassed smile.

“You’re as scarlet as a radish,” I say, using his expression.

He nods. “Nice to meet you, Lana.”

“Actually, it’s Meg,” I say.

Nelle has stood and is watching the whole scene play out before her with wide, glitter-lined eyes.

“Don’t mind him,” says Kiera, “he’s only in love with you. He’s watched all of Brilliance … how many times is it now?”

He flushes even deeper and cracks a small smile. “It’s a good show.”

“No it isn’t,” I say, with a smile back.

We all sit down, Kiera expertly arranging so that Cillian and I sit next to each other.

I have grown used to the surreal in the last few months. Or maybe in the last decade, since I lost Aimee. My whole body is in invisible shivers as I revel in the unbelievable situation I find myself in.

“Do you ever get déjà vu?” asks Cillian, leaning a little closer to me. His voice is quiet enough that only I can hear him, but it’s as clear as a bell. As if we’ve sliced the air around us and created a place for us.

I nod, my eyes latched on to his, an irrepressible smile at my lips. “I do.”

“Me too,” he says. “I’m having it now.”

“So am I.”

His eyes hang on mine and we both smile again.

Sometimes I feel like my memories are less like a library filled with detailed volumes of moments lived, and instead, every moment is an atom in the air around me. The past is what I breathe, it’s what keeps me alive. Aimee. Avalon. Childhood summers. The remembered adrenaline of a night onstage. It’s all there, around me, all the time, enigmatic and abstract.

I feel immensely grateful as we sit there at the pub, as my knee leans lightly against Cillian’s and my finger absently runs up and down the condensation of my glass, and as cold air comes in through the door beside our table and we all cheerfully lament the icy gusts. I laugh with an open mouth and talk a little too loudly; I joke freely.

I don’t try to protect the memory of tonight from tragedy by pretending it isn’t lovely, and I don’t cherish it so hard that I smother out its spark. I don’t question the magic or panic that what I love is slipping through my fingers, or that every good thing will one day be cast pale against the darkness of future catastrophe.