Zakir laid down flat on the bed beside her, notebook in his hand, pen between his teeth as he looked up at Anchali. He studied her through his glasses, a friend he never thought he'd have in New York City, someone who was as connected to his youth as the music he'd listened to growing up. Someone who he felt he knew everything about, while in turn she had a connection to him that wasn't as new as the city he'd made his home in the last decade.
He felt lazy, body sleepy from last night's concert, while his brain was popping with fresh ideas, words, sentences, stories, all of it running around in different languages. The stream of consciousness calming somewhat in Anchali's company. "Will you pay attention if I ask loud enough, or ignore me in a whisper?" he asked. He smiled, as he wrote it down. "You seem distracted, Māśūqa, are you okay?"
He was distracted himself, could feel the weight of this crime business, the death of a leader. Things felt tighter, to points where he returned home and realised he finally felt like he could breath. At least doing shows and battles or recording new things helped to push it down. But it was still there, a dark hole trying to pull him in, and it had him, in part, slowing down time enough that it almost felt like he wasn't falling. But in comparison to others, he was protected, walking a fine line, important. If something happened with Sawayama, he could still prove useful to others. After all, he was a polyglot, languages in a multicultural city like New York City held importance. They could be used, more than words with hidden meanings, but bridges.
He felt like Anchali was the only other person who understood the value of words.
