““Jared?” “Hm?” “You’re pretty fucking sick, right?” The thermometer said 103 degrees. “Naw. Need sleep.” “Good, so you’re at death’s door, and you can’t run away when I tell you something.” “What?” “I think we’re in love.” “Yup. I’m out of here.” Not a muscle twitched. “Good. I love you. I’m pissed at you. If you ever do blow again, I will break up with you, but I love you.” “Love you too.” “No more drugs.” “’Kay.” “Promise.” “Promise.””
