I heard that you fell in love or near enough

Koa

Don't take this the wrong way
You knew who I was with every step that I ran to you

It's true that these days the Carpenter house lacks some of the warmth that makes for a proper home. There was a time when laughter brightened even the windowless rooms, when the home was tidy instead of sterile, but those days died with their matriarch. Now all three (four, counting Pip) denizens are out more often than in, and when they are home they tiptoe around as though afraid that by living they may disturb the ghost whose shadow sleeps in the crevice of their hearts.

It's a strange thing, then, to see Anju there, especially in the absence of Mahina. It feels as though he's staring into a picture frame with one figure removed, the specter of his mother beside her friend as present in memory as it is absent from sight. Koa swallows hard, finding his throat is dry and his mouth is full of cotton. There are tears, unbidden, in his eyes, and he's grateful when Anju asks for tea, quick to use the task as an escape from her sharp gaze and his own tumultuous emotions.

"Yes ma'am." He winces self-consciously at the mention of his hangover, pausing to examine his disheveled reflection in an overturned pot. He's a mess, even blurry and obscured, and though he tries to flatten his hair it remains stubbornly awry. Sighing in resignation, Koa turns away from the reminder of his mistakes, instead focusing on getting a kettle heating and the tea into cups.

He returns, somewhat, while the water warms, leaning on the doorframe between kitchen and dining room. His head is a waterfall of disorganization and pain, but he's already got a little color in his cheeks, orders giving purpose to laconic limbs. "So uh... do what do I owe this visit, Auntie Anju?" Koa asks, the childhood honorific as unused yet familiar as a long-forgotten scarf. "I don't think you've been over socially since... well, y'know."

Only blue or black days
Electing strange perfections in any stranger I choose