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Summary
Esteban thinks he’s figured his own past out, unwound and stared at and digested it, but that’s still something about his childhood he doesn’t like to look into, not deeply, not cruelly, not with scrutiny. He leaves it there. It almost remains innocent, like that, something clueless and soft and indiscernible that made no more sense when he was twelve years old and crossing the last few lines he’d ever draw in the sand before he lost something forever.
Maybe it’s cruel, to someone, Pierre or otherwise, to refuse to admit he ever really loved him.