It began when the cushions stopped being squishy.
Joy flopped down and bounced back up like she'd landed on regret.
"That felt… judgmental."
Picklebot did a scan. "Couch integrity intact. Emotional tension: high."
Gregory approached cautiously. "Couch? Are we okay?"
The couch groaned and unfolded a handwritten letter from the crack between Seat B and Seat C:
> "You sit on me—but do you see me?"
"We need to talk. Bring snacks. Not crumbs."
Maurice, munching on unrepentant popcorn, muttered, "Oh great. Therapy furniture."
That evening, the living room dimmed itself automatically. Candles lit. The air smelled faintly of lavender and existential dread.
The couch, now flanked by the ottoman and an emotionally supportive chaise lounge, began the intervention.
Barry took minutes, in cursive.
Concerns listed:
Repetitive emotional weight ("You sigh into me like I'm your unpaid intern.")
