He seems nervous. And if I’m honest, I know it’s not a serial-killer nervousness. It feels like the only thing that could be killed here are his hopes. I have never seen a boy hope so visibly. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it.

Distance. I let him sit down first so I can keep a little distance. So I can look into those eyes without falling into them. So I can keep some judgment.

I want to know more, so I need to ask more. If he’s going to convince me, he’s going to have to tell me much more.

“So,” I resume, “you say you’ve been like this since the day you were born?”

He hesitates for a brief moment. I get a sense that he doesn’t have conversations like this very often.

Well, I don’t, either.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I can’t remember it being any different.”

“So how did that work? Weren’t you confused?”

Again, he thinks about it for a second, then answers. “I guess I got used to it. I’m sure that, at first, I figured it was just how everybody’s lives worked. I mean, when you’re a baby, you don’t really care much about who’s taking care of you, as long as someone’s taking care of you. And as a little kid, I thought it was some kind of a game, and my mind learned how to access—you know, look at the body’s memories—naturally. So I always knew what my name was, and where I was. It wasn’t until I was six or seven that I started to realize I was different, and it wasn’t until I was nine or ten that I really wanted it to stop.”

“You did?” I ask. The idea of leaving your body sounds almost fun to me. A relief.

“Of course,” he says. “Imagine being homesick, but without having a home. That’s what it was like. I wanted friends, a mom, a dad, a dog—but I couldn’t hold on to any of them more than a single day. It was brutal. There are nights I remember screaming and crying, begging my parents not to make me go to bed. They could never figure out what I was afraid of. They thought it was a monster under the bed, or a ploy to get a few more bedtime stories. I could never really explain, not in a way that made sense to them. I’d tell them I didn’t want to say goodbye, and they’d assure me it wasn’t goodbye. It was just good night. I’d tell them it was the same thing, but they thought I was being silly.”

Now it doesn’t sound fun at all. It sounds lonely.

He goes on. “Eventually I came to peace with it. I had to. I realized that this was my life, and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t fight the tide, so I decided to float along.”

I can’t get my mind around it. No friends. No people in your life from day to day.

So lonely.

“How many times have you told this story?” I ask him.

“None. I swear. You’re the first.”

There’s only you. Why am I thinking of Justin right now? Why am I thinking of the time, drunk on wine in the passenger seat of my car, he said those words to me? I wasn’t even mad. I didn’t mind driving. Instead of Thank you, that’s what he said. And he was so grateful when he said it. So damn grateful.

But I can’t think about that. Instead, I go back to A’s story. “You have to have parents, don’t you?” I say. “I mean, we all have parents.”

He shrugs. “I have no idea. I would think so. But it’s not like there’s anyone I can ask. I’ve never met anyone else like me. Not that I would necessarily know.”

I don’t always get along with my parents, but I am still glad they’re around.

I think he’s going to tell me more about not having parents, about not having roots. But he surprises me.

“I’ve glimpsed things,” he says.

I expect him to say more. To tell me what this means, what he’s seen. But I have to remember: He’s new at this. He’s still very unsure.

“Go on,” I prompt.

Permission. He smiles, happy for it. I want to hug him, if only for that smile. “It’s just—I know it sounds like an awful way to live, but I’ve seen so many things. It’s so hard when you’re in one body to get a sense of what life is really like. You’re so grounded in who you are. But when who you are changes every day—you get to touch the universal more. Even the most mundane details. You see how cherries taste different to different people. Blue looks different. You see all the strange rituals boys have to show affection without admitting it. You learn that if a parent reads to you at the end of the day, it’s a good sign that it’s a good parent, because you’ve seen so many other parents who don’t make the time. You learn how much a day is truly worth, because they’re all so different. If you ask most people what the difference was between Monday and Tuesday, they might tell you what they had for dinner each night. Not me. By seeing the world from so many angles, I get more of a sense of its dimensionality.”

“But you never get to see things over time, do you?” I ask. “I don’t mean to cancel out what you just said. I think I understand that. But you’ve never had a friend that you’ve known day in and day out for ten years. You’ve never watched a pet grow older. You’ve never seen how messed up a parent’s love can be over time. And you’ve never been in a relationship for more than a day, not to mention for more than a year.”

“But I’ve seen things,” he says. “I’ve observed. I know how it works.”

“From the outside?” I’m really trying to get my mind around this, but it’s hard. Blue looks different. “I don’t think you can know from the outside.”

“I think you underestimate how predictable some things can be in a relationship.”

I should’ve known we’d get here. I should’ve known this would come up. He met me as Justin, after all. He knows the deal. Or thinks he does.

I need to make it clear. “I love him,” I say. “I know you don’t understand, but I do.”

“You shouldn’t. I’ve seen him from the inside. I know.”

“For a day,” I point out. “You saw him for a day.”

“And for a day, you saw who he could be. You fell more in love with him when he was me.”

This is very hard to hear. I don’t know if it’s true or not. If you’d asked me yesterday, maybe yes. If you ask me now, after Girl Scout cookies, maybe no.