He never really looks at me, I give him every opportunity.

And even though the bits in between are perfect, chimerical, cosmic, she writhes with humiliatingly repulsive paranoia at the thought of how absent he always seems, the way she's always the one to reach out, talk first, and cautiously take his hand, as if it's something so fragile that it could break at the slightest touch.

But, despite all her doubts, if she tilts her head the right way she can still just about smell him off her shoulder,  
and that has to mean it's real, doesn't it?

Spring trees still look like winter

In the room downstairs he sat and stared.