After a few weeks, you stop fighting. You accept that your home is now a shared universe. You learn to point at the fly swatter. You develop a Jedi-like ability to sense their presence without looking.
You realize that a life without a single small black flying insect would be suspiciously clean. It would be like a sitcom without a laugh track. They are the tiny, buzzing proof that you have real produce and a real life—just one with slightly more erratic air traffic.
So next time one does a victory lap around your nose, just nod. You’ve been hired as an unpaid air traffic controller. It’s your job, your curse, and your weird badge of domestic honor. Just don’t forget to rinse that apple cider vinegar trap. The shift never really ends.
