We won't ever be even. Not really. There's nothing of mine to match yours in weight, and... I don't think yours will match mine, in shape.

[ but he frames it as a transaction, as weights and debts, and somehow this is easier than sympathy. it's strangely impersonal, a secret for a secret, but then, if he'd spoken of a willing spirit and the bonds of friendship, she would already be leaving, wouldn't she?

even so...]

Is this what you want?