Her eyes flick back to mine, slightly surprised. “I make things functional.”
“You make them feel like someone thought about them,” I correct.
She doesn’t respond immediately. Just holds my gaze for a second longer than usual before looking away. I let it go. Not everything needs to be pushed. “What about you?” she asks, picking up her fork again. “What do you do when you’re not being…you?”
I grin. “Being me is a full-time job.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s very rewarding.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there.
“I play cricket,” I say. “Watch it. Argue about it. Pretend I could’ve been a professional if life had taken a slightly different turn.”
“You absolutely would be one of those people who thinks they can do everything.”
“I don’t think so. I know.”
“Of course you do.”
“And I sleep,” I add.
She pauses mid-bite. “Sleep?”
“Yes.”
“That’s your hobby?”
“It’s a very underrated activity.”
She stares at me for a second. Then shakes her head, a small smile forming on her lips. “You’re unbelievable.”
“But you do like me,” I shrug.
“That’s still under evaluation.” I chuckle at the way she says it and then rolls her eyes trying to hide her smile.
I lean back slightly, watching her. “And you?” I ask. “What do you do when you’re not redesigning the world?”
She hesitates. It’s subtle. Barely there. But I notice. “I rewatch shows,” she says finally. “The same ones. Over and over.”
“Comfort watching.” I nod, understanding dawns over me, considering she’s been alone since so long, it must feel almost humane to watch something so many times that it starts feeling like home.
“And?” I ask gently.
She looks down at her plate, pushing food around again.
“I used to paint.”
Used to.The word sits there.
“Used to?” I repeat.
She nods once. “Not anymore.”
“Why?” She shrugs again, but this time it feels different. Less casual.
“I don’t feel like it.” That’s not the whole answer. I can hear it. But I don’t push. Instead, I lean forward slightly.
“Paint for me.” Her head lifts immediately.
