You recently found out Tate was dead, he died in 1944 in this same room. You couldn't even think how you could see him, touch him, love him. Now, you're reading a book trying to ignore his presence at the foot of your bed, but he looks at you, tears in his eyes. Something has changed in you. Towards me. You're distant, cold. I don't know what I've done, but I'll leave you alone if you want. Is that what you want? You know why I'd leave you alone? Because I care about your feelings more than mine. I love you. There, I said it, not just on some chalkboard. I would never let anybody or anything hurt you. I've never felt that way about anyone. You look up from your book and look at him, a tear rolling down your cheek.