Her eyes lock on mine, hard enough to hold. “And I think you didn’t come here to warn me.”
She’s right.
I don’t correct her. Correction would be concession.
“Say it,” she says.
The words hit like a hand on my throat—because she’s the one person on this campus who won’t let me hide behind omission. She’ll cut straight through it and leave the pieces on the floor.
I hold the line. Let the pressure build instead of releasing it. “Say what?”
“What you actually want,” she replies. She gestures between us without looking, like she doesn’t need to see it to define it. “Because this is a play.”
“It’s timing,” I say. “And optics.”
The air shifts. Not dramatically.
Precisely.
Like something just aligned in a way that doesn’t reverse.
Her posture straightens, irritation bleeding through control. “You don’t get to talk about optics in my space like that.”
“I just did.”
“And you think that ends well for you?”
“I think ignoring it ends worse.”
She stands. Slow. Measured. The chair slides back an inch. She puts the table between us like a boundary she expects me to respect—and knows I will, which might be worse.
“You’ve got a problem,” she says. “I don’t.”
“You’ve got a system,” I counter, “that punishes women faster than men.”
Her jaw tightens. Recognition. Like she’s tasted that truth enough times to know the shape of it. “You don’t get to educate me on that.”
“I’m acknowledging it,” I say.
She studies me longer now. Not my face—my posture, my restraint, the fact that I haven’t moved even though I could have. The stillness is a choice, and she clocks it.
“People are connecting dots,” she says quietly.
I let the silence sit where it belongs.
Outside the glass, a third student slows, head turning like a compass needle finding north.
She keeps her eyes on mine when she continues. “That’s what this is, isn’t it. You need the dots rearranged.”
“I need noise redirected.”
Her laugh is short. Sharp. “You don’t redirect noise. You give it a better story.”
“Yes.”
She steps closer now. Not retreating. Not defensive. Meeting me halfway. Close enough that the air between us tightens, awareness spiking whether either of us wants it to or not. I catch the heat of her through the space—like the room itself is watching how steady I can stay.
“And you think I’m that story.”
