Page 144 of In Somnis

She doesn’t flinch or offer me the look I’ve learned to anticipate, the one that moves through confusion and lands somewhere between pity and skepticism. That’s the expression people get when a psychologist admits to struggling with eating.

But Lennon looks at the ingredients spread across my counter, then back at me. “What are your safe foods?”

No qualifier, no raised eyebrow, no but surely you can just… just the question, practical and warm, and asked like it’s the obvious next thing to ask.

Safe foods are a list of foods my nervous system has approved, and approved specifically, the right texture, the right preparation, from the right source. Change one variable, and it’s off the list. It’s not a preference, and it’s certainly not pickiness. It’s the difference between eating and not eating, and on bad days, I choose not eating.

“I’m guessing none of this qualifies.” She says it matter-of-factly, already gathering things back into the bag. “I can use these at the inn. Tell me what works for you, and I’ll grab different stuff.”

I’ve spent twenty years making this nobody else’s problem. But with her…

“White, yellow, and beige foods,” I say finally, and I hear how limiting it sounds even as I say it. “Espresso and minced meat.”

“Okay,” she says thoughtfully. “So… potatoes?”

“Mashed potato. No lumps.” I clear my throat. “Scrambled eggs, not runny. Plain pasta with butter. White rice. Fries if they’re consistent. Ground beef, if it’s uniform.”

“Predictable texture,” she says immediately.

“Yeah.”

She hums. “So nothing that surprises you. Okay. That’s not hard, just specific.”

Not childish. Not broken. Not the thing my father’s voice still occasionally resurfaces to call it.

Just specific.

“I feel dumb every time I say it out loud,” I admit, and I’m not sure why I’ve said it, except she’s standing in my kitchen asking me practical questions with soft eyes, and I appear to have lost my usual discretion.

“Nothing that keeps you functioning and safe is dumb.”

Jesus Christ.

I have to actively stop myself from falling to one knee.

She tilts her head, thinking. “If I cooked your safe foods, would that work? Or is it also about who makes it? We covered eating disorders at culinary school, and I think I remember reading that it can be tied to specific preparation, specific people…”

“If I trust the person making it,” I say carefully. “And they’re consistent.”

Her smile turns slow and confident. “Oh, I can make it consistent.”

“And I trust you, darling.”

She opens her mouth, closes it. Then she nods once.

Good. It’s a small victory, seeing her let herself have something without argument.

“I think I know what I’d like to try.” She moves past me toward the hallway. “I’ll run and grab it from the store.”

And just like that, the moment shifts from us standing close in my kitchen to errands, doors, and the space she’ll leave behind.

The air already feels thinner.

No.

I am not ready to be alone after that confession.

“Lennon.” I follow her into the living room and catch her hand before she makes it two more steps. “Can you… not leave, please?”