Chatty

Chatty is very good at feelings.

Chatty says them out loud, the moment they arrive, in the proper words. "I feel nervous because of tomorrow." "I feel proud because of my painting." "I feel cross because of the thing with the coats."

This is a genuinely useful skill, and Chatty is better at it than any fluff in Candyfloss Land. A feeling said out loud gets smaller. Everybody who has sat with Chatty knows that.

The trouble is what happens next, which is more talking.

On Thursday, Chatty talked to Hushy for twenty minutes about a bus. It had been a complicated bus. There had been a queue, and a misunderstanding, and Chatty's feelings about it had been extensive.

Then Chatty said, "Anyway," and stood up to go.

And Hushy, who never says anything, said: "Right."

Just that. Right. In a flat little voice.

Chatty stopped in the doorway. Something about it snagged.

"Hushy... how are you?"

"Fine."

"No, properly. How are you?"

Hushy looked at the floor for a long time, and then said something that made Chatty sit straight back down: "Nobody has asked me that in about three weeks."

Chatty's whole face went hot.

Three weeks. Chatty had seen Hushy nearly every day for three weeks, and had told Hushy about the bus, and the coats, and the painting, and the nervous thing, and had not once left a gap big enough for Hushy to climb into.

So Chatty did the hardest thing Chatty has ever done, which was nothing at all. Chatty sat still, and shut up, and waited.

It took Hushy about a minute to start. Once Hushy started, it came out for eleven minutes straight.

Chatty did not interrupt once. It nearly killed Chatty.

Afterwards Hushy looked lighter in a way you could actually see.

Chatty still says every feeling out loud, and should never stop, because it is the thing that teaches everybody else how.

But now the check-in goes both ways. I feel this. And how about you?

And then the hard part: the waiting.