For several weeks Senri did not pry into Sesome again, they fell back to their normal habit. Sesome cooked, Senri chatted, they ate in near silence as Sesome did homework. Senri did dishes and the teen would go up to his room for the evening. A comfortable, predictable habit. Something Sesome saw as reasonable.
Senri was Cherry's boyfriend, they went on dates, they slept in the same bed, under the same roof. Senri was in Cherry's life and unlike many single mothers, Cherry did not care if he was part of Sesome's, and Sesome read that loud and clear though he wondered why Senri spent these times with him. Almost every day, putting himself in Sesome's life unneeded interacting with the awkward, quiet teenage son of his girlfriend's.
It irked Sesome for some reason, for a reason that the teen could not place until one day the predictability was broken.
That is what his brain recapped of his life up to this point as he sat at the table alone and being faced with the reality that he had allowed a person, unknowingly, to become part of those crucial routines and predictability he depended on in his life.
Growing his own type of attachment even though he kept the other at arms length, just like any other person Or so he had thought. But when you hold everyone at arm's length for so long you hardly notice that you are doing that, and Senri was always there. Keeping the routine and slowly worming his way past Sesome's usual walls because he never missed dinner. And Sesome subconsciously stopped repeating that Senri was not part of his life, that he should not expect the other there.
Senri was always there, until today. And because this new predictability and the sudden break, Sesome Moet sat quietly in the empty kitchen table.
Thinking over all of the of this, by now winter was nearing with December only a few weeks away. He knew he had a slight problem, needing a pattern. Needing to control a few aspects of his life because everything else he had no control over. He had no control over whether his mother would haul them out of the house in the middle of the night, or what school he would land in next.
Or if she favors crack over meth for a bit and locked herself in her room for Sesome to hear. The strange thoughts that swirled in his mind. And he accepted these things, he accepted that their situation was strange, that he put his straining mental health all on his ability to keep routine over the few things in his life that he called predictability.
His room was organized and things nearly always packed in some way he could pick them up and leave. Wherever they landed, he would go buy groceries. Meals. Sesome could control meals, chicken on every first Monday and fourth Friday, fish on the third Wednesday, homework done during dinner. Go to a room after dinner. These were his routines no matter what, no matter if they drove halfway across the country or moved just a city away.
Now, now he had grown used to someone being part of that routine. So he sat at the table, silently trying to force himself to move- surely his was a sign something was too wrong inside of him. This was not supposed to happen, what was happening? Sure he liked routine and was particular, he knew this. Yet knowing these things did not prepare or spare him from what was to happen.
All he had to do was stand, cut up the vegetables, stand up.