My kissing—all prediagnosis—had been uncomfortable and slobbery,
and on some level it always felt like kids playing at being grown.
But of course it had been a while. “Years ago,” I said finally.
“You?” “I had a few good kisses with my ex-girlfriend, Caroline Mathers.”
“Years ago?” “The last one was just less than a year ago.”
“What happened?” “During the kiss?” “No, with you and Caroline.”
“Oh,” he said. And then after a second, “Caroline is no longer suffering from personhood.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry,” I said.
I’d known plenty of dead people, of course. But I’d never dated one. I couldn’t even imagine it, really.
“Not your fault, Hazel Grace. We’re all just side effects, right?”
“‘Barnacles on the container ship of consciousness,’” I said, quoting AIA.
“Okay,” he said. “I gotta go to sleep. It’s almost one.” “Okay,” I said.
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