We are in your kitchen: me standing awkwardly, spewing out random music-geek facts, and you making Molten Chocolate Lava Cakes. I can hear the TV, faint in the background beneath the music.

You still have the mixtape I burned you over a year ago. It turns out you’re into indie lately, and I’m more than happy to make you another. I joke that you’ve finally moved past Disney Channel, and you don’t seem insulted.

Now we’re out on your screened porch in -10 degree weather, and I can see my breath. You show me your model park, inspired by our fairy games when we were little. It’s beautiful, and I love it more than I can say. We’re shivering and laughing, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world.

Later we talk. I think we both remember that each of us always understood what the other was talking about. We are both getting better; We both are far from fixed.

But we laugh like we used to as we do the Timewarp in your kitchen, spinning around the pots and pans, and I think this is savable.