But I noticed immediately.
Annoyingly immediately.
She stretched her fingers, glanced at my empty coffee cup.
“You finished it?”
“It was punishment.”
“Still drank it.”
“I don’t like wasting things.”
“Sure,” she said, like she didn’t believe me for a second.
Then she added, quieter:
“You look different when you’re not performing.”
I went still.
“Performing?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Basketball version of you. Party version. Interview version.”
I stared at her.
She wasn’t looking at me when she said it.
Just tapping her pen again.
Like it was casual.
Like it wasn’t anything.
But my chest tightened anyway.
“Which version am I now?” I asked.
She looked up at me then.
Held it for a second too long.
Then:
“I don’t know yet.”
Silence again.
Not uncomfortable.
Just loaded in a way I didn’t like thinking about.
My phone buzzed again.
Dad.
I didn’t check it this time.
