The others think that I don't think about it.

I know they do. They look at Tobias, in the shape he's in, and they wonder if he meant to get stuck that way. As a predator. As a hawk. As something – anything – that could free him from the life he led.

They think that I naively ignore how Tobias grows quiet after I suggest his turning back into a human again. The others think I don't notice the subject changes or the silence.

None of them point it out to me, because they don't want to let me know that there is a possibility that my boyfriend chooses not to be human. They don't want to take the risk of making me angry, or worse – sad.

What they don't know is that sometimes the possibility occurs mutinously, traitorously, as Tobias hold me in his arms – his human arms, the arms of the form he was born in, of the form that is no longer his natural form – and I wonder, why can't we stay like this forever? The possibility occurs in a flash of insight as Tobias and I soar over the clouds, a red-tailed hawk and a bald eagle, not touching, not able to touch, but as free as we'd ever been and I suddenly see the appeal of staying as a raptor before I squash the rebellious thought. Tobias didn't choose to be this way, and I know it – I know it.

That's what they don't understand. That's the secret behind my so-called naïveté. I understand Tobias, more than they do.

I was there when Tobias frantically flew inside a building, desperately, searching for me, half-panicking. I was there when he yelled that he'd given into the hawk's instincts and – God forbid – killed some rodent and eaten it. I saw the panic in the perpetually-glaring hawk eyes, I heard it in his thought-speech.

I was there when Tobias had revealed the Elimist's offer. I heard the longing in his voice. I heard the doubt. And with the doubt, I felt the weight of his memories – the memories of an unwanted boy with no friends and no family that cared.

I was there when Tobias first morphed back to human. I saw him standing in the shadows, watching me with a look of longing – the first expression I had seen on his face – his human face – for so long.

I wasn't an idiot. I know that Tobias's past as a human was full of misery. I know he hated living with relatives that didn't care, that didn't even notice when he disappeared from the world of humans. I know he despised the bullies that preyed on him. I know that life as a human has nothing to offer him, no comfort to provide, nothing. But ... I can't help but hope.

I can't help but hope that being with me – forever – can be enough.

But I understand his silence when I ask him. I understand the subject changes. I've flown with Tobias, after all. I know the absolute freedom of flying.

I understand as only a fellow warrior can. I remember Marco's accusation when we first got into this – about how Tobias was beaten by those idiots at school, how did he expect to fight in an intergalactic war? I also remember Tobias's response:

"Maybe I finally found something worth fighting for."

And I know that no matter how much he loves me, I can never compete with that. For Tobias to become human again would mean once again losing the ability to morph, his only weapon in this war. It would mean giving up and backing down. And that's why I love Tobias: he doesn't give up. He doesn't back down. No matter how bad things get, he stands up and faces the world.

But I can't help but want him to change back, for me.

Part of me realizes that this war is destroying me. Part of me realizes that it might destroy him, too. But we – we're too involved now, Tobias and I. Our lives are different than Cassie's or Jake's or Marco's, maybe even Ax's. Our lives revolve around the war. I've lost too much of my humanity to go back now, and Tobias – Tobias was born to be involved in this war. I don't think any of us will disagree that Tobias never seemed truly alive until he pressed his hand against the blue morphing cube.

And I know that's why he doesn't turn human. He can't turn back to the life he had before. The life where he lived in fear and despair.

The life where I didn't – perhaps even couldn't – love him.