Blithe stood between the kitchen and the living room. I wondered if Aiden’s state would soothe him in some way, make him feel less disgusted at Aiden and his accumulations.

“Maybe we should make congee instead of ordering in,” Blithe suggested when we stepped into the kitchen.

“True.”

Here we were again, the three of us having breakfast for dinner, with one member about to break down. Blithe brewed him a special ginseng root tea and put it in his favorite coconut mug. We let the pot simmer for about an hour. Aiden’s eyes were closed. Blithe went into his room, and I sat there, watching Aiden in repose, the slight rise and fall of his newly curved belly.

When the food was ready, we sat down to eat in the dining alcove. Blithe moved the vase of orange and yellow carnations off the table. Aiden sighed loudly and stared into his bowl.

“It’s like I’m living in two realities. In one, I’m getting married to Rachel and I can garden and box and negotiate my newfound closetedness. And in the other, I’m Aideline. I’m still this sad punk person who makes terrible decisions.”

Aiden was once punk?

“Well, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that rituals can keep you rooted in the right present. I’m not a witch, obvs, but maybe there’s something we can do to show that you’re here, in this reality,” I said, surprising myself.

I’d learned something!

Blithe nodded.

“What makes you feel like Aiden?” I asked.

“Hm. I mean, boxing.”

“And what makes you feel like Aideline?”

“My parents. Even though I haven’t seen them in fifteen years, I know they’re out there. I know there’s a chance they might come to the wedding, and I’m terrified that I will just revert into their version of me.”

“Have you talked to Rachel about all of this?” I asked him.

“Yeah, but I don’t want her to feel like she made a mistake in proposing to me. There’s so much I haven’t told her,” Aiden said.

He began to tell us about the life he kept outside of the frame, his mysterious twin who could not forgive him for leaving her alone in her female bitternesses. Then there was his father, who’d monitored his internet usage in high school and had him committed to a psych ward, his mother who could never muster the strength to publicly disagree with his father, his coworkers from a queer café called the Hole, an older abusive girlfriend, a friend who convinced him to break up with her, and the warm gaze of the camera after all the wrong looks.

A less-evolved Pen would have beamed with turquoise curiosity to hear the story behind Aiden’s façade, but the past appeared faded, pressed of all juice.