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Oikawa draws a line on the dusty space between his and your little fingers. He stops before he connects.
“So we’re a constellation,” you scoff. “Just specks of dust and waste pretending there’s still something between us.”
A leaf falls on his shoe. “There’s gravity.”
“Colliding stars explode.”
“And form new stars.”
“Or die like exhaled air.”
“If they claim each other too quickly,” he relearns. Oikawa retraces the line backwards. “Our cat sleeps on your side of the bed.”
“Sorry.”
Oikawa loops circles on his lap, the circles on your face. “Words lose their meaning when you repeat them.”