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[ The imago. All that keeps Paul from curling up on himself like a caterpillar is that final instruction, but his cheeks still flush an unusually uncontrolled pink as he devotes his energies to not hanging his head in self-indulgent rumination. He could - he has - worn a groove in himself shaped perfectly to his inward turned thoughts.

But not here. He is being invited to a threshold. He doesn't want to step away. ]

No.

[ He draws the back of his hand over his dry mouth, wiping nothing away. ]

I mean that you're right. I can't. It's not - productive. [ A pause, an adjustment. ] It's not helpful. It's...another kind of excuse, isn't it?

Telling yourself the only way forward is back. Or hating yourself so much that you can't allow the possibility of...

If I don't think there's a better version of myself, there won't be. You can't achieve what you can't imagine.

[ Platitudes, but he says them like they're new again to him. He understands them better, with the weight of what he failed to change in anyone else across his knit brow. ]

And no one else can do that for me.

Something like that.

[He could pick at the words for a while, if he felt like it; don't think of it as an all or nothing, as productive or not, as helpful or not— but he's getting a little tired of arguing about semantics with people.]

Maybe you'll keep the same people, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll agonize over it for weeks until it blindsides you on some idle afternoon that you've already gotten pretty far. I don't know; there aren't- magic beans for this.

[Or something. Whatever. He waves a hand, like, don't question the beans.]

In the meantime, you do still have to live in the world every day. Grueling but true.

[ Unlearning all or nothing thinking will come somewhere along the way, if he manages to keep himself balanced on the path. For now, this keeps him moving in the direction he wants to go, and if it's not magic beans, it's still something that grows.

(He wonders what kind of magic the beans are, to solve problems.)]

I don't think I'm good at that. [ Now his hands come together, a loose empty basket in his lap. ] Living in the world. But I'm good at practice.

[ So: he keeps doing it. It would be easy to hide, shut himself up in another ruin like the ones he used to secret himself away in - but for now, he's found. ]

So. There it is.

[ He uncurls. He leans back against the chair and looks at the ceiling, blowing a stray hair out of his eye. ]

...thank you. For talking to me about this. Even without the beans. [ It could be a bad time; it probably is; he hazards it anyway: ] They're not in the mochi?

I have no idea what's in the mochi, if I'm being honest. I didn't like them; they're chewy.

[But he doesn't broadly enjoy the experience of eating food, so please don't take that as endorsement of their overall quality; he hears they are excellent.

Probably no beans, though.]

I don't like beans, either, come to think of it. [palamedes.] But I am on your side. Still.

You're stubborn like that.

[ Or: it's a relief to here, unwinding the spring-coil set of his spine as he opens up the box of mochi again and selects one, now thoroughly thawed, to squish lightly between his fingers. ]

There's a sweet bean paste you might...probably not.

[ Prosaics. Talking about baking. These are the things you miss out on, attempting to forge a path through the wild dark towards half-glimpsed destiny. He bites delicately into the mochi, and if he had to say what it tastes like - it tastes like another chance, deserved or not. ]

I'm on yours, too. [ Quiet, without dramatics. ] They're good. Compliments to the baker.

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