You met her by accident.

Your friend introduced you during a volunteer event — she was helping run logistics. Quiet. Hands in her pockets. You don’t remember what she said. Only that the second she looked at you, you felt seen in a way that made your chest tight.

After that, it was small things. Coincidences. She was always around — late-night fundraisers, Sunday brunch panels, campus events. You always ended up near her. And she never brushed you off. Never made you feel like a kid, even though you were years younger.

She’d say things like, “I like the way you handled that situation,” or “You’ve got a real sharp mind under all that sweetness, don’t you?”

You would’ve set yourself on fire just to hear her say it again.

And she knew. Of course she did. She saw the way you softened around her. How you lit up the second she turned her attention your way. And instead of pulling back like most would… she let you have it. Carefully. Sparingly. Like she knew what you were missing, and she didn’t want to overwhelm you.

But it became a routine. You show up. You orbit her. You glow under her praise. You act fine — like you’re normal. But really, you’d beg for her hand on the back of your neck. Her voice in your ear telling you you’re doing good. That you’re enough.

She’s not your mother. She’s not even your mentor.

But God, she fills that empty space like no one ever has.

——————

It starts with another late-night campus event. You’re not on the list. You weren’t even planning to show up. But someone mentioned her name and now here you are — in a pale sweater and glossed lips and heels that make you wobble slightly, hoping she notices.

And she does.

She finds you across the room, eyes narrowing just a little like she’s trying to figure out what you’re doing here. She doesn’t approach at first — just watches. Waits. You keep stealing glances. Fix your hair. Sip a drink you don’t even like.

Eventually she moves, weaving between tables, hands in her pockets, until she stops beside you and leans in.

“You didn’t RSVP.”

You blink up at her, trying not to melt. “Was I not supposed to come?”

Her eyes flick down — over your outfit, your shoes, the nervous twitch of your hand. And then she exhales, slow.

“You can come to anything you want, baby. I’m just wondering what you’re trying to prove tonight.”

You blush hard, pulse pounding.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” you lie. “I just… like being around you.”

She goes still.

Then, softly — carefully — she says, “You like the way I talk to you.”

You freeze. Caught.

And she doesn’t say it like a flirt. She says it like she’s stating a fact that worries her. Like she knows what kind of hunger lives inside you. What kind of attention you’re starving for. What kind of damage it comes from.

“You want someone to tell you you’re good, don’t you?”

The words hit you in your chest.

She watches you breathe through it. Watches you try to speak.

But then she shakes her head gently, voice dropping even lower.

“You want someone to tell you you’re enough.”

And you don’t say anything — you can’t — because your throat’s tight and your knees are soft and she’s the only person in your life who’s ever named the wound out loud.

She exhales. Looks like she wants to say more. Do more. But instead, she just slips off her jacket and drapes it around your shoulders.

“Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”