She hadn't laughed at his good humor, his stories of the south she missed. She hadn't wondered what he didn't say, wanted understanding and to know him, wanted something better gone; hadn't reached for the same coffee, let skin brush against his skin. She hadn't felt her world jarred and been inside him and become him; hadn't watched him reel.
She wasn't shaking against the back of her door, wasn't hearing Cajun thoughts.
That night, she touched Logan, hugged Ororo, slapped Bobby, proving once again: Cured.
Cured. She was Cured. She could touch. She couldn't--