He hates that they left him alone, hates the way he so desperately and fiercely misses them. He hates that he got to live, when they did not.
He shuts everyone out. There's not that many people left for him to shut out anyway.
He doesn't want to feel anything. He wants to be bitter, wants to hate himself.
But she comes in like a storm, throwing everything he wants out the window.
She's nothing like Monica, the girl who couldn't handle his handicap. This girl embraces it, never makes him feel bad about himself.
"You know," she says, "that other girl never deserved you."
And maybe she's right. If he had met her before Monica, would it be different?
He knows it would.
"I miss them," he admits.
"I miss her. I wish I'd gotten to meet him."
He holds her hand, feels her pulse race as he does. He smiles to himself.
He tells her that he misses being able to see, tells her he wishes he could look at her beautiful face.
"You're the beautiful one," she says.
His hand cups her face, pushing her hair behind her ear.
He wishes he could look into her eyes, see her reaction. But he can't, so he feels her face react rather than sees it.
He kisses her.
His chest explodes. He feels again. He doesn't feel the bitterness that's been eating at him for months; he feels his heartbeat racing.
He kisses her deeply, showing her a side of him that is too vulnerable for the rest of the world.
When he pulls away, he lays his head on her chest and listens to her heart.
He's pleased to find that it's beating just as hard as his is.
They don't say anything. They don't have to.
He knows her.
She's like a storm, strong and commanding.
It's just what he needs.