Turn 10 of 11

I take in the scene, and act on what matters most.

"What did you think being host would do? When you wrote it — what did you think you'd get?"

Marchetti pulls her hand further into the jumper sleeve until just her fingertips show, pale and curled. She looks at the board the way someone looks at a broken appliance they trusted — a kettle that blew up, a lock that jammed. There's hurt in it, but there's also the cold assessment of someone deciding whether the thing can be fixed or whether you bin it and buy a new one.

"I thought I'd stop losing things," she says.

The sentence sits in the kitchen between you, and you don't know what to do with it. Losing things. The rent money — that's the obvious read, the ninety-three quid a month that leached out of her account and into yours without either of you agreeing to it. But the way she says LOSING sounds bigger than money. Broader. Like she's been watching pieces of herself get quietly redistributed and couldn't prove it was happening.

"The rent change," you start.

"The rent change. Yes. But not just that." She turns to face you properly now, and you see it clearly — she IS smaller. Not emotionally, not metaphorically. The jumper that looked oversized ten minutes ago sits on her shoulders like it fits. Like something's been taken from her frame, her presence, the space she takes up in a room. She used to fill doorways. She used to arrive in a kitchen and you'd know she was there before you turned around. Now she's standing three feet from you and you keep almost forgetting she's here.

"I wrote things on that board before," she says. "Months ago. Small things. Who deals with the landlord. Which cleaner we use. I kept it quiet because I thought — I thought if I was careful, I could make it better. For everyone."

"And?"

"And then someone wrote the rent rule. And I started paying more. And I couldn't remember writing the other things. I only know because I found them in my notebook. In MY handwriting. Things I don't remember writing. Rules I don't remember making."

Your mouth goes dry. The marker swings on its string between you, catching the kitchen light. You think about your own handwriting on the board — PRIYA IS THE HOST — and how you felt nothing. How the title sits on you like a coat that belongs to someone else. And you think: if the board can take Marchetti's memories of writing, can it take yours? Can it take the fact that you noticed any of this at all?

Marchetti's eyes drop to the marker again. Her hand is still hidden in the sleeve.