He felt so tired, so weary of holding on with an iron grip to something he knew was slipping away. “You can’t make someone love you,” he said. Her hand stilled for a moment, the dirty tissue between her fingers. “True.” “Even if you love them so much you’d do anything, anything, for them.” The truth of his words sank in. Speaking about it wasn’t helping. It felt worse, like probing an open wound. “Even if,” his grandmasaid, nodding. “Sometimes they pick another person to love when you’ve been right in front of them the whole time.” “It does happen.” Her voice was soft. “And then there’s nothing left but to keep going as you were, pretending you never felt anything more than . . .” “Friendship?” Her eyes met his and there was the faintest glimmer of tears. “But I don’t think I can have even that, anymore.