The house is empty. It's empty all the time. You're watching the ramen cook in the pot, bubbling slowly.
You're worried about Shiloh. You're bored of tv and games. You miss stupid Ted who said he was your Dad--you're mad that you miss him, since he died and left you alone, but you miss him anyway, just like you miss your room back home and the trees and the fresh air--how does anybody breathe in New York?
It's lonely here. You can't talk to anybody, because you're not supposed to tell them what you can do, just like you can't touch anyone, because when you do you can always tell they don't really want you to be touching them. Just like the beautiful red-head--she didn't really want you to love her. She just wanted love. So you couldn't. It wasn't fair.
You think of her anyway. You've had a few dreams about her, but you know they're not really real, and they don't mean anything. The ramen keeps bubbling, and you keep watching. Nothing happens.