“No, I don’t want to be alone,” he replies. He is looking at me. I can feel his eyes on my face, but I can’t, for the life of me, meet his gaze. So, I hold my breath because it seems like a good idea. It’s not like I’ll die.

He slips his arms around me and holds me while I try not to die because I’m holding my breath. I gasp noisily and he pulls me closer to him.

“Hold it,” I squeak, my face smooshed against his chest. He smells nice. Like the sunshine. The boy made of stars smells like sunlight. Hah. His heart is racing.

When do I realize that he is terrified? I don’t know. It just dawns on me. Hard. Like a sledgehammer dropping on an unsuspecting head. He is shaking.

“Are you all right?” I ask, when clearly, he is anything but.

“No,” he whispers into my hair. I don’t remember when I last washed it. I hope it doesn’t smell too terrible. “I will be, though. For some reason, being near you reassures me.”

I can’t be close to anyone. This is the first time a man has held me like this since… since that time. Maybe it is because Taraana is as broken as I am. Maybe it is because he saw me at my worst moment and didn’t turn away. Maybe it is because I can sense he is not a threat. Or maybe it is because he wants nothing from me at this moment other than comfort. I allow him the liberty of holding me.

He pulls away after a minute. “Thank you,” he says. “I promise to be stronger.”

I shrug. “You’re still alive, aren’t you? I reckon that means you are strong enough.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” He sits down on the bed and looks around the sizable room. It is elegantly furnished with wide doors that open up to a balcony. All our rooms have balconies; magic does have its uses. He glances at me, a little shyly. Oh dear.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“You already are.” He gives me a look and I relent. “Go ahead.”

“What have you been doing in the years since I threw the box of stars to you?” he asks. I sit down beside him. I wish he hadn’t asked me this question.

“Why do you ask?” I croak.

“Do you not want to answer?” His voice is so gentle, I might hit him. I don’t want to be treated like I’m glass.

“I don’t want to answer,” I tell him. He nods.

“What do we do now?” He moves on quite easily, this boy.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.