"You're a month away," he said.
"From what?" I looked at him. From complete deception?
"No." He laughed. "Not that."
"Hey, stop reading my mind." He was still grinning, and I almost pouted. But I was more curious than pouty, and so repeated my question. "From what?"
"The longing is so apparent in your eyes." He glanced down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, then back up at me.
I had followed his glance and was distracted by his hands. Strong and smooth, with long tapering fingers that once played music. I imagined them flying over notes and keys, despite how neatly they were intertwined.
At the same time I laughed. "What? Who even says that? 'The longing is so apparent in your eyes.' What?"
"From flying away." His right hand drew away and lifted in a half-arc, fingers drawn through air. His head tilted slightly as he looked intently at me.
I shook my head. "You always knew me best."
His eyes were smiling. "I can't help it. I'm your conscience."
"I love you," I said, and smiled back through the longing.