When I elected to come over to your house and cook you dinner, I didn’t think that would mean I’d have to watch America’s Got Talent with you hooping and hollering the whole time. You sing along to the songs you know, but quietly, almost as if you don’t want to disturb the other singer’s performance. Really, it’s sweet. But I’m not one for shows like this.

A young girl hits a particularly high note — and holds it — and I hear your breath shudder. You’d begged me to tune into this one because it was supposedly ’one of the hardest Broadway songs to sing.’ At the sound of your soft gasping, I turn around.

“Are you crying?” I ask, a grin breaking out on my face. You shake your head but you’re sitting on the edge of the couch, hands pressed against your lips.

“Oh, you are so busted.”