“I expect you do.”
“I’m not using them.”
Teresa doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.
I close the file. That’s the first physical action that feels like a decision instead of a reaction. The paper settles. The room absorbs it.
“I need something that’s mine,” I say.
Teresa tilts her head slightly. Not confusion. Assessment. “You have things,” she says.
“I have objects,” I correct. “Clothes. Books. Documents. None of them change the structure.”
“No,” she agrees.
“They move with me. They don’t anchor me.”
I look at the walls. The furniture. The arrangement. Everything placed before I arrived. Everything designed for function, not for me.
“I want to change it.”
That gets her attention. “Change what?”
“The room.”
A pause.
“You have permission,” Teresa says carefully.
“This isn’t about permission.”
No answer. Good. She understands the difference.
“I’m not preparing to leave,” I continue. “I’m not keeping things minimal. I’m not?—”
I stop. There isn’t a word for it that doesn’t sound like surrender.
So I choose a better one.
“I’m staying.”
Teresa studies me for a long moment. “Good.”
“I want this room to reflect that,” I say. “Not comfort. Not decoration for the sake of it. Structure. Placement. Intention.”
“What would you change first?”
I stand. Slowly. The twins object less when I move deliberately.
I walk to the window. Test the lock out of habit. Still secure.
Of course it is.
“The bed,” I say.
Teresa follows my gaze. “Position?”
“Yes.”
