I toss and turn in between bouts of sleep for the second night in a row. I feel too much to calm down and I dream in flashes of colour and emotion. I don't remember which ones when I wake up. I'm unsteady, but balance doesn't seem as out-of-reach as it did yesterday. I walk through school and classes and my mind settles with every question I can answer. I don't have the power to control myself and I visit Emile. He smiles and I smile and it burns. I'm a candle and I'm melting into a new and unpredictable shape. Candles are romantic; is that a sign?

"You should probably not come over on Friday. Aurélie is bringing home her boyfriend for the first time."

"She has a boyfriend?" I ignore how my week loses some of its colour. I don't spend every evening with Emile and I shouldn't, but I want to. I don't remember what I did on the evenings I didn't see him.

"Yes, it was news to me too. She told me yesterday evening before she left. At the last minute too." He chuckles. I hum and that's all the acknowledgement Emile needs. "Apparently they've been dating for a month. It's strange to realise she's an adult now. I mean, she was an adult before, but it feels more real now."

"Of course. It's the next stage in her life."

"I also realised that she doesn't tell me certain things. Makes me wonder what she hasn't told me before. But I guess that's the fate of most parents, even the ones who are close to their children like me."

"Maybe she didn't tell you earlier because you were too close?" I don't take 'overprotective' in mouth, but Emile hears it anyway.

"I'll admit I might be a little afraid for her. The world isn't always kind to seropositive people. And I wish I had that trust from her."

"Is it always a matter of trust?" I don't tell him I love him, but that's not a matter of trust. I trust Emile. I don't trust me. And every possible reaction implies complications. I don't like complications. I don't like me either; I'm made of complications. But maybe I've been me for too long and now I'm unable to see the wood for the trees.

"I suppose not. That doesn't change I want to know things. I don't want her to hide. I don't want anyone to hide. I will always strive to be my best self and be worthy of people's trust."

"I know you will." I do. Emile is good. Emile is open. I'm not. But maybe I should try. Emile deserves that I strive to be my best self and am worthy of his trust. Does that imply I tell him what I feel? I've hidden so much already; it's time to stop hiding. I want to stop hiding. I want to be normal. Normal people love. Normal people confess.

But not now.

***

The right moment finds me sooner than I wish. On Wednesday, we go to the Shakespeare adaptation we planned in April. It's perfect: romantic – as if I care, but don't I care? – my nerves are swallowed by the performance, and the words are laid in my mouth.

One half of me is yours, the other half yours
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
And so all yours.

I don't say them since they are as dramatic as when I first read them, but they do form a starting point when we're sipping wine in the café right next to the theatre.

"I've never understood those grand love confessions."

"Neither do I. It's another time, I guess." Emile pauses when he realises: "But you've lived through that time."

"I've never been involved in a love confession."

"Well, you did say you are aromantic."

"I don't know. I think ... I looked it up and there's also demiromantic?"

"You have feelings for someone?"

"Yes."

"Have you met someone you have a strong connection with then?"

Is he really going to make me say it? Emile is denser than I thought. "Not anyone new."

"You ..." He falters. "Me?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." The words are not adequate. I'm bad at conversations that carry more weight than small talk.

"You shouldn't apologise for what you feel. It doesn't affect me – I mean, this does, but ... My right to feel what I feel doesn't change your right to feel what you feel."

"I have hurt you enough."

"And how does this hurt me?"

Emile wants to say more, but I answer before he can. "I'm too old, you will die, you had a wife, you have a daughter."

"And I'm too old to care about your age, I will die when my time comes, Aurélie likes you and I'm panromantic. I still love Céline, but I can love other people. I hope you're not implying widowers are unfaithful when they remarry."

"I'm not." But I didn't expect that answer. I even forgot we are both men and that is more complicated than if either of us were a woman. Maybe this is another case where I was unable to see the wood for the trees: unable to see my own acceptance because I made things more complicated than they needed to be. "But I've lied to you and broken your trust. I've hurt you."

"And I understand why you did and I've forgiven you. Tell me, do you have any other secrets?"
I rack my brain. "I don't know."

"See? That, to me, is proof enough that you are a good man. You won't tell that asexuality is not valid – I assume the physical attraction hasn't changed for you. You won't pressure me into anything. You are willing to change your views. You went to Pride with me when a few weeks before, you only knew homosexuality existed and it was not a sin as the church and society had taught you for most of your life."

I don't deserve the praise, but I accept it silently. I do want to be good and maybe I can. Maybe Emile can teach me. I've never had help to adapt to the time I'm living in. I need to see my best self to be my best self. He sees me.

"Are you ... Do you ...?"

Emile curls his palm over my knuckles. "I'm willing to talk about what we want in a relationship and we'll see where this goes. No grand love confessions from me." He chuckles. I relax and revel in the warmth of his skin.

The residual tension escapes through a joke: "You shan't compare me to a summer's day?"

"I'll let the writing to you. Don't expect too much from a mere doctor."