Patch asks to go out, so I open the door. He pauses on the threshold, reading the air like it’s a message meant only for him. He steps out, then reappears moments later, nose pressed to the French window, fogging the glass with fresh nose‑art. I open the door again; he doesn’t come in. He just stands there, undecided, as if the threshold itself is the point. When I step outside to usher him in, he runs away. This is where I recognise boredom, not mine, his. I try to be the best Mom, but he would test the patience of a saint.

And yet boredom requires a blankness I don’t possess. Even in these tiny domestic loops, the world offers micro‑textures, the shift in light, the slant of a thought, the way Patch listens to something older than sound. These subtleties unfurl easily for me. They keep the moment textured and full. With so much quiet detail to inhabit, boredom has nowhere to settle.