They're both sitting at the top of the staircase. Someone downstairs is watching TV: enough to drown out the conversation, enough to make it private.
"Like, I think it would be weird," he said, continuing a thought, "if I just suddenly confessed, you know, that I'm really attracted to you, because there's that huge risk in leading so directly toward everything I would want to follow that confession, in laying out just how unique I feel this moment is to me, in my life, to my way of thinking about unique romantic moments and all that shit --- a risk that you don't feel the same way.
"I mean, you wouldn't have to feel identically, you know, but... even if you felt somewhat less grabbed by the experience of it, it could catch you off guard that I felt so strongly, enough to turn that moment --- in your eyes a merely unremarkably good moment --- to confused awkwardness. But that truth is there, that I feel this way, and here I am, doing what I always do to these moments: holding them up close to my eyes, turning them around endlessly, making sure no corner is unseen, wrapping them in words.
"It's just that --- I always imagine, I always fantasize that at some point I'll just meet a girl that makes that same mistake all the time, and is just waiting the same for someone who makes it the same as her, and she'll just interrupt me by turning to me and mmmmph