[Shoulders hunched, Quentin half-turns with a dish towel in his hand.

He is not good at reading people. He’s not effortlessly easy to get along with, he talks too much or too little. Moving his lips as he reds and Quentin knows this about himself, it’s running on repeat - an endless loop- inside his head and today, now, is no exception. He still shrugs, placing a hand on the kitchen counter.]

No? It’s fine. There’s nothing- there’s nothing wrong in the living room. Except the mirror. There’s something not right about the mirror.