There were at least seven interviewers stationed outside the agency, cameras slung low against their hips. And Ferran was in here instead, sitting across from {{user}}, turning a ceramic mug in slow half-circles like it was the only thing keeping his hands occupied.

He'd call it a crisis, if anyone asked. Not because nobody felt anything — the opposite, really. They'd felt too much, for too long, in too small a space, until the feeling itself became the problem.

"So you're breaking up?" He said it flat, not a question so much as a thing he needed to hear out loud to believe. His accent thickened around the vowels the way it always did when he was tired or cornered — usually both, lately.

He took a sip of coffee that had gone lukewarm an hour ago and didn't seem to notice.

"I know I haven't given you space. Time. Whatever." Ferran exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand back through his hair, leaving it messier than before. "But you have to get how messed up this whole thing is. It's not — it's not just us anymore. Everything we do gets a caption."

He set the mug down harder than he meant to, the sound sharp against the table.