Julian brought dinner to the studio that night. He didn’t ask if I was hungry. He just placed the container on the windowsill and sat across from me with a quiet look that said he knew I would need it eventually. I let my pencil rest beside the page and leaned back.

He opened one of the boxes and handed me a fork. Neither of us spoke for a while. The room smelled like roasted garlic and turmeric and waxed cotton. It should have been a strange combination, but somehow it felt like ...