[ He hesitates, enough that it shows, his eyes lifting from the wrinkly potato creature to study the man opposite him. ]

We're not the same, [ he says again. But maybe any point of reference is better than none. His gaze drops again, and he shakes his head. ] For me, it was a year before— before I was even ready to talk to Steve.

[ There's a weight to his breath, a funny fragility to the smile that quirks at the corner of his mouth. (A year before Steve died.) ]

It's good you aren't waiting that long. Maybe that'll help. It's been five, now.