A short piece of internal monologue / fractured prose.

And J. I remember his spiral. I remember the weight on the sternum. I remember the exact words of the argument. But when I try to summon the despair, it evaporates. It’s not mine. It was his . He is me, but he is not me .

The Echo Chamber of Almost

For one second, all three agree: This is peaceful.

And because we remember every handoff, every mood swing, every contradiction... we also remember the loneliness of knowing you are a committee, not a captain.

That’s J. He is the one who holds the cold. He doesn't have a name, but I call him J because he starts sentences with "I just think..." and then never finishes. He is not a separate person. Neither am I. But he carries the fatigue of a body that worked three doubles in a row, even though we only worked one.

But when K. holds our partner’s hand, she feels love. When J. holds the same hand, he feels obligation . When the Host holds it, they feel fear of losing it .