There’s a rhythm to what she’s doing. Fold, press, stack. Repeat. One flyer goes slightly off, and she fixes it, smoothing the edge before adding it to the pile.
It’s something she can hold steady.
I get it.
She looks up and smiles when she sees me, the expression easy but a little thinner than it used to be.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
I pull out a chair and sit across from her. She goes back to folding without hesitation—the silence between us doesn’t need to be filled.
A door slams somewhere out back, harder than it should.
Her hands stop mid-fold.
Her head tilts slightly, listening, waiting to see if anything follows. When it doesn’t, she exhales and keeps going, smoothing the crease as if nothing happened.
I push my chair back and stand, cross to the back door, check the lock, the frame, the handle. Everything’s solid. I secure it anyway, quieter this time.
When I sit back down, she’s watching me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I did.”
She studies me, then looks back down at the flyers.
“I’m getting really good at pretending I don’t notice things,” she says after a moment.
I shake my head slightly.
“That’s not what you’re doing.”
“No?” she asks, glancing up.
“No.”
“Then what am I doing?”
“Paying attention.”
She makes a face, somewhere between amused and unconvinced. “That sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not.”
“It feels like one.”
A hint of a smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
She sets another flyer down, a little crooked this time, and doesn’t fix it.
Progress.
“You okay?” I ask.
She shrugs, a small movement. “I’m trying to be.”
“Yeah.”
