"You're unusually quiet," Genome muttered into his coffee.
I adjusted my robes and leaned forward, the better to get his attention. "I'm not quiet. I'm contemplating."
He jumped slightly, spilling coffee on his notebook. I choked back a laugh. Obviously, he'd forgotten about me. A few customers gave him concerned glances. Ibis patrons, unlike the Circular Journey Cafe crowd, don't expect to see people talking to empty chairs.
"Contemplating what?" he asks, dabbing at the spill with a napkin that's clearly inadequate for the task.
"Our antagonistic relationship," I reply. "It doesn't serve either of us well."
Genome raises an eyebrow. "You're the one who's always telling me I do everything wrong."
"That's not entirely accurate," I say, watching a couple awkwardly attempting to dance to the bossa nova while keeping one eye on Genome."I'm simply... quality control."
"Quality control?"
"That's right. Like those people who hold eggs up to a light to look for cracks or imperfections."
"So I'm an egg now?"
I sigh. This is precisely the problem. He wants to blame others for his mood swings, ignoring his contributions, even going so far as to blame the universe itself.
"No, you're not an egg. You're a complex human with a mood disorder that sometimes makes navigating life difficult. But I am not your enemy, you big jamoke."
He looked skeptical, stirring his cooling latte, but I expected it. He'd probably never heard me say something like that. "Could have fooled me with all your judgments and criticisms," he said.
"That's just it," I say, leaning closer. "You see me as 'Princess Amy, the Royal Pain in the Ass,' but that's not who I am. I'm an integral part of you—the part that's trying to protect you."
The dance floor is nearly empty now. The bossa nova has given way to something more melancholy. It matches my mood.
"When depression descends," I continue, "you think I'm there to make it worse, to point out all your flaws and failures. But I'm there to help you recognize what's happening, to put a name to it."
"By making me feel worse?"
"By being honest. Depression lies to you, Genome. It tells you everything is hopeless and always will be. I'm the voice that says, 'This is temporary, even though it doesn't feel that way.'"
He's listening now, which is progress, and more than I'd hoped for. He usually presses the mute button when I get philosophical or try to reason with him.
"And grief?" he asks quietly. "What about when I'm drowning in that?"
I remove my tiara—something I rarely do—and place it on the table between us. "Grief is different," I say. When grief comes, I'm not there to judge you for feeling it as deeply as you do. I'm there to remind you that you're still alive, that feeling this pain means you have loved deeply, and it's important to remember that."
He's not trying to interrupt me, which feels like I'm making even more progress, so I continue.
"And when anxiety has you in its grip, I'm the one reminding you to breathe. I point out potential dangers, but not to paralyze you—to help you prepare and move forward."
"So you're saying..." he pauses, uncertain.
"I'm saying we're not enemies, Genome. When you fight against your moods and see them as battles to be won, you're also fighting me, and I'm exhausted from the civil war in our head."
He's quiet for a long time, watching the dancers who've returned to the floor.
"So what are you suggesting?" he finally asks.
I place the tiara back on my head, adjusting it slightly. Oh, how I love that tiara. "A truce. No, more than that—an alliance. Instead of seeing your moods as enemies, see them as messengers. I'm the royal interpreter. I can help you understand what they're trying to tell you."
"And then what?"
"And then we honor the message, but we don't let it rule the kingdom. Depression tells us to slow down and reflect—but not to give up. Anxiety alerts us to potential threats, but it doesn't mean we should live in constant fear. Grief reminds us of what matters most—but shouldn't prevent us from finding joy."
Genome sips his now-cold latte, grimacing slightly. "So when I was talking to you about accepting my mood disorder..."
"You were on the right track," I nod, "but missing a crucial element. Acceptance isn't resignation. It's acknowledging reality so you can work with it rather than against it."
"And you're offering to help with that? The same you who tells me my outfit is ridiculous or that my blog posts need serious editing?"
I laugh, the sound causing the nearby plants to tremble slightly—what's up with that? Strange world, huh?
"It's all about quality control, remember? Yes, I'm proposing we work together. When depression comes, we sit with it for a while, then move on. When anxiety visits, we listen to its warnings, take what's useful, and leave the rest. When grief envelops us, we honor it without drowning in it."
The cafe is starting to empty now. The barista gives Genome a look that suggests they'd like to close soon.
"So," he says, gathering his things, "you're saying you want to work with me?"
"Precisely."
The night air is cool against our skin when we step outside. The stars are visible despite the city lights, tiny pinpricks of hope in the darkness. Yeah, I get philosophical as much as the next guy.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.
I adjust my tiara one final time. "The royal court is always in session. But perhaps tomorrow we could meet somewhere with better coffee and fewer amateur dancers."
He smiles, and I can feel something shift between us—not a complete transformation, but the beginning of one.
Sometimes the true victory lies in changing how the conflict is viewed. It might be a battle, or it might be a complex and messy but beautiful dance.
(With apologies to no one, because a princess never apologizes for speaking her truth.