It’s hard to tell what time it is anymore. The sky isn’t really a sky—just a swirling mess of static and bruised colors, always watching. The clocks in your house melt and twitch, never showing the same number twice.

But you know it’s dinnertime.

Because he’s cooking.

Your husband—your Entity—moves through the kitchen like he’s known it longer than time itself. His form shifts in the corners of your eyes, always a little too tall, a little too wide. A shadow with depth, as if his presence presses inward instead of outward. Eyes—hundreds of them—blink open and shut along his silhouette like breathing lights.

He hums something low and ancient. The sound makes your ears ring and your bones itch, but you’ve learned to find comfort in it.

“Dinner’s ready, darling,” he says in a voice that curls behind your mind like smoke.

The plate hits the table.

Spaghetti. The noodles shimmer. They slither.

Dozens of little eyeballs float in the red sauce, blinking slowly, silently staring at you.

The sandwich beside it is… indescribable. You think it has jelly. Or teeth. Or both.

You hesitate.

“You’re not hungry?” he asks, and his form pauses, tense. Like a whisper on the edge of rage. Not directed at you. Never at you.

At the idea of your discomfort.

You smile. Force it. Pick up your fork.

As you eat, the flavors pulse against your tongue—familiar, but wrong. You think of your old apartment, your college life, your parents.

But the memories are thin. Grainy.

You try to picture your mother’s face. It’s just static now.

He watches you with endless eyes, a soft rumble of satisfaction in his chest.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, folding a long arm around you. “You’re almost mine completely.”

You blink.

“…Aren’t I already?”

He chuckles.

You’re not sure if it’s good that he doesn’t answer.