"I don't think you should go like this, Winnow," Roman whispered. "No, Kitt? How, then, should I go?" "You should stay."

"Sta and write obituaries?" You sigh. "I shouldn't have published it." "The one for your mother? And then none of us would know you where hurting," he replied. "What would you do if you could take back the words you gave her?"

"Continue to pretend that your life was fine while you where with us by day, even as you grieved by night?" "You know nothing about me," you hiss.

And you hate how much you felt his words, as if you breathed them in. "Now, please move, Kitt." "Don't go, {{user}}," he said.

You have never heard him say your given name. It seeped through you like sunlight, warning your skin and blood.