What changed? He started rewriting things. She frowned slightly like she was trying to find the precise word for something. Not lying exactly, just revising. A conversation we'd had would come back different.
A plan we'd made would turn out to have been my misunderstanding. Over time, you start to wonder if your own memory is wrong. She looked at her hands. I started to shrink. And I didn't notice I was doing it because it happens so slowly.
Ethan was very still listening. What made you leave? He asked. I bought a plant, she said. He waited.
I bought a plant for my apartment, this big, stupid, beautiful fiddle leaf fig. And I brought it home and I was so happy about it. I'd been wanting one for months. And I called him to tell him, and he said, "She stopped, started again." He said, "Claire, you kill everything you take care of.
That thing will be dead in a week." She was quiet. And I believed him. I didn't even argue. I just said, "You're probably right."
She looked up. That plant is 4t tall and it's sitting in my living room right now. I've had it for 2 years. Ethan didn't say anything for a long moment. After I left him, she said, "I had to learn how to trust my own perception again.
How to know that what I remember is real. How to stop waiting for someone to tell me I'm wrong about what I see." She exhaled slowly. It took longer than I want to admit. And then he shows up here tonight.
And then he shows up here tonight. She turned to look at him fully. You want to know why I'm telling you this? Why? Because you have a version of that, too.
Her voice was careful. Exact. Not Daniel. You've never had a Daniel. But something got into you, Ethan.
Some voice that decided you're not allowed to want things. That you've used up your share. She held his gaze. And I've been watching you listen to that voice for 2 years. He felt the accuracy of this somewhere he didn't know how to name.