The things we circle.
This is a fragment—a glimpse into something larger. A moment between Figment and Reverie, but not the whole story. Not yet.
“You circle the thought. You walk around it, toe at the edges. You dissect the feeling instead of feeling it. You think that makes it easier to hold.”
Reverie doesn’t answer right away. They rarely do. Instead, they trace a finger over the rim of their glass, eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere.
It’s not wine tonight. Just water.
A rare thing.
They exhale. “I don’t do that.”
“You do.” I don’t argue, just state it. Because I know.
Rev—the name only I call them; swallows, then shakes their head—at me, at themselves, at the weight of whatever’s pressing against the inside of their skull. I can tell they aren’t sure whether to be annoyed by my certainty or comforted by it. That’s how it always is with us.
“You make it sound like I don’t know my own thoughts. I clearly, know my own thoughts, Fig.”
“You know them. You just don’t trust them.”
A pause, a razor sharp inhale. Barely noticeable, except I notice everything. I see the way their jaw sets, the way their fingers twitch, the way their exhale catches just slightly before it steadies.
“That’s not—” They stop. Their expression flickers, something fragile slipping through the cracks before it disappears again. Then, quieter, like they’re speaking to themselves instead of me: “I can’t do this right now.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
And I mean it.