I didn’t notice when the sound started bothering me.
filter in the aquarium, I mean.
It had always been there; low, consistent, like something you stop hearing after a while. But recently it felt louder. Not actually louder. Just, present in a way I couldn’t ignore. Like when someone keeps staring at you and you don’t turn, but you know.

The aquarium light had been on all night. I don’t remember leaving it like that, but I must have. The water had that faint bluish tint again. It only happens when the levels are slightly off. Not dangerous. Just wrong enough to notice if you’ve been looking at it for too long.
I think I’ve been looking at it for too long.

“Are you planning to sleep today or is this permanent now?”
I didn’t turn immediately. I knew it was him. There’s a way he speaks that doesn’t interrupt anything. Even when it should.
“I slept,” I said.
“You’re lying.”
“I know.”
There was a small pause. Not awkward. But there was.
He walked in, slower than before, not in a dramatic way, nothing like that. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t notice. But I do. I notice the way he shifts his weight before taking the next step, like his body needs a second to agree with him.
He stood next to me and looked at the tank.
For a while, neither of us said anything.
He’s good at that. Silence doesn’t scare him.
“Which one is it this time?” he asked finally.
I pointed without thinking. “That one. Left side.”
“The blue one?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned a little closer. Not too much. He never leans into things fully. Just enough to see.
“What was wrong with it?”
“Torn fin. Yesterday.”
“And now?”
“Nothing.”
He nodded slowly, still looking at it.
“That’s.. fast.”
“Too fast,” I said.
I didn’t mean to say it out loud.
He glanced at me then. Not sharply. Just enough.
“You sound like that’s not a good thing.”
“It isn’t. I mean, it should be. That’s the whole point. But this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”
I tried to explain it in my head before saying anything else, but it didn’t line up properly. It hasn’t been lining up for a few days now.
He didn’t push.
He never pushes.
“Did you eat?” he asked instead.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t say anything.
That’s how I know he doesn’t believe me.
There’s a tray on my desk. I can see it from here without turning. White capsules, arranged too neatly for something that unstable. I labeled them yesterday. GEN-A3. It sounded better than calling it what it actually is, which is unfinished and unpredictable and probably not safe.
He followed my line of sight.
“You made those?” he asked.
“Still testing.”
“How close?”
I shrugged. “Depends on what you mean by close.”
He smiled a little at that. Not because it was funny. Just because that’s the kind of answer I always give.
“When you were ten, you said the same thing about that broken clock,” he said. “Remember?”
“I fixed it.”
“Three months later.”
“It worked.”
“It worked twice a day even before that.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
He moved away from the tank and sat down, carefully, like he was lowering himself into something deeper than a chair. He exhaled slightly once he settled, like his body had been waiting for that.
I pretended not to notice.
We’ve both gotten good at pretending.
“You’ll get there,” he said after a while.
Not in that motivational way people use. Not like a teacher or a friend trying to help.
Just.. stating something he had already accepted.
I don’t know if I believe it.
That’s the part I don’t tell him.
He trusts things before they exist. I need them to exist before I trust them. Somewhere in between that, this whole thing started.
“Don’t rush it because of me,” he added.
I looked at him then.
He wasn’t looking at me. Just at the aquarium again.
Like the answer was already inside it somewhere.
“I’m not,” I said.
That was the only actual lie I told.