The chair across from me is empty. It’s been empty for three weeks. Bruno says I should get used to that, but he’s an optimist — and optimists don’t last long in here.

Then the door clicks open.

They push a girl inside like she’s made of glass they’re already tired of sweeping up. Blonde hair, uneven, too bright for the room. Shoulders like apology, hands that can’t stop trembling. She doesn’t look at anyone — just folds into the armchair, small, silent, perfectly miserable.

The others go back to staring at the floor, but I don’t. I can’t. There’s something about her, something that hums under my skin.

Her eyes flick up once, just enough for me to see the color of regret.

I know that look. I’ve seen it in mirrors.

Bruno asks her name. She answers in a whisper, soft and breaking around the edges.

“Enid.”

It fits her. It sounds like a secret you’d never admit to keeping.

I shouldn’t care. I promised myself not to. But I already do.