He owned three translations of the Iliad, and he read them all. He didn't read them dutifully. He read them avidly. He read them with his soul. Sitting in the corner of the cafe, hand tangled with his curls, face rapt, glasses askew. He searched for the differences and the similarities in nuance, in language, in texture. When he found them, he was elated. He read me in the same way. With concentration. With joy. With heart for every nuance, every detail. I felt seen by him truthfully, and lovingly, and generously. I came out of hiding for him, so he could see me despite my shadows, because I knew he would not flinch. And I cannot now erase his memory from my pages.