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Summary
“How did you do that?” Mike asks, voice low, like he’s afraid of the answer.
Will turns toward the window instead of answering right away. The late afternoon light stretches across his room—the pile of sketchbooks stacked precariously on his desk, a thrifted lamp in the corner, the steady hum of traffic below. New York noise, in his New York life, something he built all by himself.
“I cut the bruises off the peach,” Will says. “It’s not perfect—not what I thought it would look like.” He offers a small shrug. “But it’s still sweet.”
Mike doesn’t answer right away. And Will doesn’t say that some bruises don’t come off so clean.
Or; Will runs into Mike in the NYU advisors office after two years of radio silence and effectively turns his life upside down (again).