It’s been a while since my last post. A lot has happened. Greg moved in, and while I should’ve predicted how that would go, I somehow didn’t prepare myself for the full experience.

Here’s an example. Greg decided, completely out of nowhere, that his room needed to be a different color. No planning, no supplies checklist—just raw, unfiltered confidence. He started painting one afternoon, got about halfway through, then realized he didn’t have enough painter’s tape. That was two weeks ago.

His room is still half-painted. His stuff is still packed up. And Greg? Greg is unbothered.

Me? I’ve been trying very hard not to care. I tell myself it’s his room, his business. But every time I pass by that half-painted wall, my eye twitches. Every time I see his still-packed boxes, my hands itch to start unpacking them just to make the chaos stop. And every time Greg assures me he’ll “get to it soon,” I smile and say, “Oh, no rush,” while silently grinding my teeth into dust.

I even tried subtle encouragement. Things like, “Interesting aesthetic choice—very avant-garde to leave a wall and a half unfinished.” Or, “Wow, I didn’t realize you were going for a live-in storage unit vibe.”

Greg, in his infinite optimism, just grinned and said, “Thanks, man!”

This went on for days. Then, finally, I cracked and vented to Jeff about it.

I expected Jeff to laugh or, at the very least, agree that Greg’s unfinished room was an affront to all things orderly. Instead, Jeff—who has recently leaned into this whole knowing things energy—tilted his head in that irritatingly calm way of his and said, “Have you considered that Greg’s half-painted wall is actually an unspoken metaphor for the unfinished chapters of your own soul? Like, what walls in your mind remain half-painted, Matthew?”

I stared at him. “What.”

He shrugged. “I mean, why does this bother you? What’s really happening here?”

What’s really happening? What’s really happening is that Greg has turned a perfectly functional living space into an art project he lost interest in, and I am being forced to witness it. That’s what’s happening. But Jeff just nodded like he expected that answer and then said, “And how does that reflect something within yourself?”

I almost left the house. Through the window. Just to make a statement.

But, damn it, the question stuck with me. Because if I was being honest (which I try to avoid where Jeff is concerned, because it only encourages him), I knew Greg’s room wasn’t really my problem. The problem was me pacing outside his door, getting irrationally angry about something that, in the grand scheme of things, did not matter. The problem was knowing that if I were in Greg’s position, I’d be spiraling over the unfinished project, feeling like a failure for not finishing it in one perfect, uninterrupted go.

And the bigger problem? I knew Greg wasn’t avoiding finishing his room because he didn’t care. He was avoiding it because he did—because he’d started something and then hit a wall (metaphorically, not just literally). And I had been so busy being annoyed that I hadn’t done the thing that actually makes sense to do when someone is struggling: help.

So, after two weeks of passive-aggressive sighing, I finally just asked.

“Hey, want a ride to the home improvement store?”

Greg blinked at me, like I had just handed him the keys to the universe. ‘Oh, yeah, that’d be awesome! Thanks, man. Wait, should I get one of those little edge brushes too? Or, like, a whole new roller? Actually, do you think we should just repaint the whole room?’

That was it. No resistance, no excuses. He grabbed his keys, and we left.

The trip was surprisingly fun. We got the supplies he needed—and about five things he absolutely did not need, including a laser-guided paint edger (‘For precision,’ Greg insisted) and a shade of green he had no intention of using but wanted ‘just in case.’ Afterward, we stopped for lunch at a place that serves these incredible grilled seitan and cashew cheese sandwiches with roasted herb fries. Greg made a joke about how the Brotherhood should have a house menu—’We could do Seitan Saturdays!’—and I pretended I wasn’t already mentally drafting one.

By the time we got home, I realized something: I could’ve saved myself two weeks of frustration if I had just helped Greg instead of standing around being mad that he wasn’t doing it my way.

I’d love to say I learned my lesson, but let’s be honest—this will probably happen again.

Still, at least Greg’s room is painted now. Small victories.

~ Matthew 🌳