Tate: I’d dream about her too if I could dream. I don’t think I do anymore.
Pedro: Who are you? What are you doing in my room?
Tate: This used to be my room. Then was hers.
Pedro: What are you talking about?
“We kinda broke up.”
“Week after week, month after month, year after year we collect checks, but deep down we know it doesn’t work.”
I love you, Tate.
I’m so sorry, mom. I’m sorry you had to die.