It is a difficult thing knowing that someone has seen you for what you are. That they have felt you through all of the terrible times, known your heartache and your fear and your loneliness. It doesn't matter that she felt all of the worst of it when she was young -- she carried all of that with her as she grew, understanding it in the way only the innocent can, but in adulthood knew it to be false. A fabrication.
And yet he isn't a fabrication, and he never was. He is, in many ways, still that tall, sad boy she knew and carried in her heart all of these years. A tall, sad boy who grew into a sad, dark man.
It isn't any easier for him to consider opening up to her despite this. Perhaps it even makes the prospect that much more difficult. She said she didn't want to know him, and he wants to reiterate that to her again.
You do not want to know me, Maya. I do not want you to know me. I am not the boy you thought you knew. I am not the man you're hoping I grew into.
But he stays silent through the hours as they sit side by side in the darkness. His suite is the quietest it's been in ages. It takes him a while, but eventually he ungloves his other hand and takes hers. He does not rest them clasped there on the sofa between them, but rather draws them up onto his thigh to be enfolded also in his other hand.
He isn't a bad man. He's just a little broken, having learned unkind lessons that left him scarred and walled off.
When he does finally speak, it is a simple statement mixed of amusement and irritation:
"Your grandmother is a pain in the ass."