He doesn’t flinch at the soft self-deprecation — he just listens.
So I keep going.
“I raised my hand in every class. Not because I knew the answers… but because Iwantedsomeone to notice me. My teachers smiled at me — polite — but no one reallysawme. Until Carson. But now he’s gone.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. It stays with me. And somewhere in the depths of his golden eyes, I see a ripple — as though something in him understands loss, even without words.
“So I guess maybe,” I add, a hint of vulnerability threading through my voice, “I’ve been overlooked a lot.”
No shame in it. No bitterness. Just honesty.
He doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t offer pity. He just looks — and somehow, thatmeanssomething.
Between us, something shifts.
A gravity forms. Slow. Insistent. Not loud, not dramatic — but undeniable.
The canyon wind thumps against the dome walls, but in here, we both hear something softer: the warmth of shared space, the rhythm of two beings unafraid to exist next to each other.
I tear a small piece from my nutrient bar — crumbly, sweet, and absurdly comforting. I offer it to him sideways, like one does with a shy child or an uncertain friend.
He doesn’t take it.
Not yet.
But heconsidersit.
That counts.
I pop a bite into my mouth — the texture gritty with sand bits, the taste of sugar and stale grain — and I close my eyes for a moment as the flavor spreads. It reminds me of picnics with my sisters when we were too young for responsibilities. Of laughter shared under skies that didn’t swallow you whole.
I open my eyes and find him still watching me.
Finally, he speaks again.
“Maug,” he says. Just his name. But there’s something in the way hesays it— a weight, a catch, a meaning that’s more than a label. It’s an acceptance.
“Maug,” I repeat without thinking, savoring the way the consonants feel on my tongue. Solid. Earthy. Like a word shaped by wind and stone and survival.
He doesn’t correct me.
Instead, he shifts. Just a slight motion — barely noticeable — but in it, there’s a willingness to be considered, to be invited into this fragile circle of trust.
I laugh — quiet, almost shy — and tell him another story.
“My sister — the artist in the family — she once painted this crazy, swirling sky over top of a desert scene. Said the colors were the planet breathing. Mom called it ‘impossible.’ But I loved it. Always thought she saw things differently.”
He watches me speak, head tilted, eyes fixed.
There’s curiosity there. Not judgment. Not suspicion.
Curiosity.
I pause when I mention the war — something ancient and terrible flickers in his face, a darkness that doesn’t wash away with light. But I don’t press. I don’t need to know. Not now.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him after a while. Not a demand. Not a plea. Just a quiet truth.
The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’sfull. You canfeelit, like color in the air.
