[That, too, is impossible. The inference is, of course, that in a year maybe he will be in a position to do anything at all like the star in her story; he hasn't bothered thinking ahead, when his present is all he can deal with, and that not well. His future has never been his own. The people around him dictate his place in the world and at any time they may decide there is none; even if they don't, there isn't. He has learned this, hurting others as he went until he was finally stopped.

More impossibilities. She spins a story like he once did, explaining the impossible and unknown in such a way that makes sense on the surface but, when pulled apart and held up to logic, to reality, does not even exist let alone become viable. And yet.

And yet. He speaks slowly, ignoring the answer to his own question for now; the temporal discrepancy is a much more real impossibility. Maybe he's just crazy. Maybe this is what it looks like now.]

Some. Maybe. I... am not certain of my place in it. Not certain of how it is possible, of course. We... [He is about to say we are not stars, but he remembers how she smiled, and thinks maybe if someone asked him what stars were now he would have a valid reason to suggest they are people, before or after or now.

He draws a breath in, half-closes his eyes. Pushes down whatever tries to seize his chest, though it makes his voice negligibly - but tellingly - thicker.] Is it? A true story?

Is it?

[It's not her that he doubts. It's that he could ever have that life, ever have someone that loves him as completely, as openly, as she clearly does.]