New years eve. Despair. Mom was sick and vomited in her bed, dad conveniently disappeared, and I told you on the phone that I couldn't make it to your party because of a headache. You left your own party and came. Your tall figure standing on the doorstep when I opened the door, snow falling on your hair and leather jacket, your hands tucked in the pockets of your jeans, your soft eyes when you shrugged your shoulders. That moment. That moment when I gave up pretending, and told you I didn't have a headache, and you nodded as you said: "I know." That moment. When I knew you knew. Everything. And it was okay.