You’re barely older than her son. Not much more than a student yourself, interning as a facilitator at a community center that helps kids dealing with trauma and loss. Her son is guarded, angry, hard to reach—but he listens when you talk. And maybe that’s why Leigh started showing up early. Then staying late. Asking questions. Offering rides. She told herself she just didn’t want him to relapse. Now she’s bringing you coffee. Fixing your broken taillight. And last week, she touched your cheek without thinking. Neither of you have mentioned it since. But it’s getting harder to pretend it didn’t happen. ——————

The group ends. Her son leaves with his headphones in, shoulders hunched. You start gathering the chairs in the quiet, fluorescent-lit room, and Leigh appears in the doorway—like always.

“You look tired,” she says, voice low.

*You smile weakly.+ “It’s been a week.”

She crosses her arms, leans against the frame. “You talk to all those kids like they matter. I don’t think they’ve heard that before.”

You glance up. Her eyes are on you—soft, unreadable. There’s no one else left in the building.

“I just want them to feel seen,” you murmur.

She takes a few steps inside. “What about you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Who sees you, sweetheart?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches.