It doesn't bother her that he disagrees; after all, her whole point was that it's different, that she doesn't know how to explain it. You don't have to miss someone to be waiting for them. Maybe it'd be worse, if you didn't; knowing it was inevitable as the tide, and having to wait, anyway.

She can't help but laugh a little; enough men are called Bill that you can barely call it a coincidence, but still.

"I don't always get along with mine," she admits, quietly-- as if anyone around here cares. "I think it makes it easier to get past little things, though." A beat, and she adds-- curious, but shy-- "Why don't you get along, though?"