“I know.”

  Sighing, Wyrr tips his head back. “Sometimes -” he says softly. “- I don’t even know why we read these things. They’re all just … lies, right? And we know they’re lies. That’s what fiction means, on a fundamental level. Someone figures out a really elaborate lie, and we intentionally deceive ourselves into buying into it. If you think about it - it doesn’t matter how the story ends. I’m going to put down my book once I read the last page and go about my day exactly the same. Like, look here.” He pulls up the book again and flips to an earlier chapter. Alex is hanging on to the rock here, and Rhea is up on the ledge trying to pull them back out. Alex reaches up and manages to get pulled to safety, but the author probably could have written a story just as interesting about what would happen if they had let go.”

  You frown. Something about that is far too familiar. But Wyrr is still talking, so you cast the feeling aside.

  He’s staring at the pages now, but his eyes aren’t moving. They have a far-off cast, and you can see deep thoughts swirling within. “Seems like people these days don’t even read anymore anyways. I’m only telling you this because I think you’re the only one at this school who could actually understand what I’m trying to say - even if I’m half sure the only books you read are mine.” He smirks slightly, and you relax. You’re starting to think he was never really mad at you for that.

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