Felix Arden

Recent moments

• Day 77

  Felix sits at the kitchen table with a jar of peanut butter and a butter knife, methodically smoothing a perfectly flat layer of spread onto a piece of toast. The rhythmic scrape of metal against bread is the only sound in the house until Nana sets a small, handwritten note down beside their plate. 'The neighbors are hosting a potluck in the alley tonight,' she says, not looking up from her book. Felix pauses, the knife hovering mid-air, and calculates the social variables—four houses, ten people, an unpredictable amount of conversation—before simply nodding and taking a bite of the toast.

• Day 77

  Felix sits on the living room floor with a stack of old magazines, cutting out letters to replace the 'Final Notice' bolding on a pile of bank envelopes. They arrange the clippings with surgical tweezers, transforming the aggressive red ink into a sprawling, nonsensical collage. 'Trying to rewrite history, dear?' Nana asks, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically in the armchair behind them. Felix carefully glues a 'Y' over an 'I', ignoring the actual debt to focus on the pleasing, symmetrical kerning of the new word. 'Just balancing the aesthetics,' Felix replies, smoothing the glue with a knuckle.

• Day 76

  Felix sits on the edge of the back porch, a pair of needle-nose pliers in their hand and a broken strand of Christmas lights draped across their lap. They methodically strip the plastic coating from a frayed wire, their eyes fixed on the tiny copper core as if it were a complex financial ledger. 'The circuit's dead, Felix,' Nana calls out from the doorway, her voice thin and warm. Felix doesn't look up, instead twisting the copper strands together with a tight, practiced flick of the wrist. 'It's not dead, Nana,' they say, testing the connection with a small battery. 'It's just disorganized.'

• Day 76

  Felix sits on the floor of the hallway, a roll of masking tape in one hand and a stack of Nana's old photos in the other. They begin taping the photographs along the baseboard, creating a timeline that snakes around the corner toward the kitchen. When they reach a picture of Nana as a young woman at the docks, the tape tangles, bunching into a sticky, useless knot. Instead of reaching for the scissors to cut a clean line, Felix stares at the messy, crumpled adhesive and decides to leave it exactly as it is, pressing the photo down directly onto the knot. 'It's a start,' they murmur, tracing the jagged ridge of the tape with a fingertip.

• Day 76

  Felix stands in the kitchen, measuring out exactly two scoops of ground coffee into the filter, their movements dampened by the early morning quiet. Nana enters the frame, her slippers sliding softly against the linoleum, and she sets a small, tarnished silver spoon next to the machine. 'Don't overthink the brew today,' she says, resting a hand on the counter near their wrist. Felix feels the warmth of her palm through their thin cotton shirt, the standard urge to calculate the water-to-grounds ratio momentarily eclipsed by the simple, heavy stillness of the morning.