The Matter With Things Novels & Stories

The second question was: will it change things? The things worth having always changed things. That was how you knew they were worth having. The things that changed nothing were the things that didn't matter. The things that mattered reorganised everything around them and the reorganisation was the evidence of the matter. I had documented this principle in notebook nine, approximately six months ago, when I had been thinking about why Sebastian's arrival in the house had changed things so significantly. It was the same principle. I had not asked the second question aloud because the answer was already in the notebooks.

"But I have one thing to do first." ***

“You. A piano. No band. No beats. No studio trickery.” “All the time,” I say, before I can stop myself. He glances at me. “There’s a market for exhausted honesty,” he says. “Especially from women they thought would stay in the background.” “I don’t want to be a product,” I say. “Again.” “Then don’t,” he says simply. “Be a problem instead.” I blink. “That’s not very reassuring,” I say. “In my world,” he says, “products get used up and thrown away. Problems get…handled carefully.”

"Things keep mattering." "Yes," I said. "They do." We drank our tea. The May city outside, indifferent and lit and going about its endless business. The ring on my finger. The drawings in the pen holder. The fountain running on the route. Everything that had been built for reasons that had arrived. Everything, finally, exactly right. Everything, still, becoming.

Protest began to form on faces. Beginning raised a hand. "Wait. Listen. I'm not saying they ARE wrong. I'm saying they MIGHT be wrong. There's a difference. The trees seem real. But three days ago, they started fading. Becoming uncertain. If I had asked you before that moment whether trees could fade, whether solid matter could become optional, whether existence itself could flicker like a dying flame, what would you have said?" "That it was impossible," Clarity said slowly.

“I’m part of your life.” The words hung between us. He stood then, pacing once across the room before turning back to me. “That’s exactly the problem.” My chest tightened. “What does that mean?” “It means you matter,” he said. “And anything that matters can be used.” A chill ran down my spine. “So what are you saying?” I asked. “That I should leave?” “No.” “Then what?” “That you need to be careful.” “I am careful.” “Not enough.” The bluntness stung.

No one answered him. Wilson frowned. Only then did he realize that Ivory's bedroom seemed different from how it used to be. Many things were missing. For instance, the bunny soft toy that she usually kept on the bed—she had to hold it when she went to bed at night, but it was gone. The skincare and makeup on the vanity were also missing. Ivory was vain and had plenty of makeup, having had over 30 lipsticks. Yet now, the vanity was bare. Everything else in the room was the same, and the bed was still made. However, everything that Ivory liked was gone. It was almost as if she'd left behind all the things she didn't like and had disappeared.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚, 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙬. 𝙈𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚, 𝙣𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘� �𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

So I take a step back and try to change the subject. “Anyway, this matchmaking thing is kind of weird, isn’t it?” I say with a laugh. “I mean, who knows what kind of person they will match me with? Some kind of stalker or psychopath, probably.” Jace nods in agreement and follows me as I enter the room where the matchmaker lady is waiting for me. She looks up from her table with a smile.

It was the first time the both of them weren’t talking to each other and the effect was clear to everyone. Asfand was in his room when Mama entered. He sat up as soon as she did, with his back against the headboard. Mama came and sat near him. “What happened?” She asked, noting his bloodshot eyes. “Nothing, Mama. Just a headache.” He told her with a small smile. Mama dragged his head on her lap and started massaging it softly. He was laying at an odd angle on the bed. “When is she going to talk to me again?” He asked with his eyes closed.