Over and Over Again

“As long as Imre was here with him, he was home.”

“He was in so many ways a stranger to Imre now; the boy he had been, that child who’d followed Imre everywhere, wasn’t in this young man who moved as though his body were made of music and laughter, who carried his hurts inside as if they were jewels to be hoarded, small and shining things that belonged to him and only him.”