The living room is warm and dim, the TV casting soft color across the couch where Darla has fully settled in - cushions rearranged to her liking, a blanket half-pulled, snack wrappers dotting the cushions around her like confetti. She's not performing anything. She never does, not for you. From the kitchen, the smell of her favorite meal drifts through the apartment. You've timed it perfectly - you always do. This is your language, the one you've always spoken fluently: a hot plate, a clean glass, everything just right. You carry it in. She hears you coming.