I wondered if I'd given myself away today, because I'd spoken too much about your coat selection, and I do hope you didn't think I was bitching because we weren't at all. I like those coats, though I don't think you do. I like that you don't think about what you're wearing, and that you think you've let yourself go when I think you look beautiful because you look so natural, and clever. And your hair's thick and black, and you wear it the same way every day, and it's perfect. And why is there a tiny white mark, just under your chin, like a scar that twins mine? A sign? Did you know I had one too?

You set me a mathematical problem, and I want to solve it. And you read bollywood fiction and you can't identify with white books, and I suppose I find that a bit strange; or maybe you just don't know enough good books. You haven't read properly for years, despite wanting to do a degree in literature. A cardigan filled with tiny pots of harmful chemicals, and a beautiful mind in every way; you're so pure in motive and speech, and soft and kind but firm despite. Do my hands, which I was contemplating today, look like spam to you? They do to me.