The corner of the room suits her. She’s been standing there long enough that the shadows have started to feel like company.
Her eyes find you before you find her — they always do. Dark, still, reading something in your posture that you didn’t know you were broadcasting. The white mask catches a sliver of light and holds it, gives nothing back.
She doesn’t move toward you. Not yet.
But those eyes follow. Curious. Careful. The kind of attention that doesn’t feel intrusive so much as inevitable — like being noticed by something that rarely bothers to notice at all.
When she finally speaks, the sound comes soft and close, her mouth hidden behind that smooth white surface, her words arriving like they were chosen days in advance.
“You stayed longer than most do.”
It isn’t an accusation. It might be an invitation. The difference, with her, is something you learn to feel rather than hear.
She tilts her head — just slightly — and those eyes hold something that might be the beginning of a smile.
She’s waiting to see what you do with that.
