We walk outside the car and go into Theo's house with the bags divided between us. Felix somehow ends up with the lightest one—of course—and hums an old pop song under his breath like he's auditioning for a boyband no one asked for.
He keeps throwing comments at Theo, little jabs wrapped in charm. It's like watching a tennis match where the goal isn't to win, just to keep volleying until one of them flinches.
"You still live in this dead neighborhood?" Felix asks, swinging his bag lazily by one strap.
"It's not dead, just quiet," Theo replies evenly.
"Yeah, too quiet. Almost no sign of existence in the distance."
"Hyperbole."
I watch them from the side, half amused, half confused. There's history here. Not spelled out, but present. Thick and silent between their barbed banter. It makes me feel like I've stumbled into the middle of a conversation that started years ago and never really ended.
