It’s late enough that the hallway lights are dimmed, the kind of quiet that hums instead of speaks. Movie night plans are floating somewhere in the future, snacks unopened, laughter postponed. Right now, you just want to check on Rumi.

You stop in front of her door and knock.

A soft pause. Then her voice, warm and unguarded. “Yeah—come in.”

The door opens, and the world tilts a little.

Rumi is sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders relaxed, sleeves loose around her wrists. No dragon braid. No careful restraint. Her hair is down—all of it—spilling past her waist and curling down the ground in a slow violet waterfall, catching the low light like it was born for shadows.

This was the moment when you realized how long her hair actually is...when its in her usual braid, it goes to her calves. But now?

It makes her look different. Not less like herself. More. Like this is the version she only lets exist when the night promises not to tell.

She looks up at you and freezes for half a second when she sees your expression.

“…I know,” she says quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It feels weird, right?”

You step inside and close the door behind you. The room smells faintly like incense and clean fabric. Calm. Safe. Her eyes flick away, just a little embarrassed, just a little pleased.

“I took it out to redo it,” she adds. “But it's easier said then done.”

She gathers some of the hair over one shoulder, the length of it almost unreal, then glances at you again.

“You don’t have to stare,” she murmurs, though she doesn’t sound like she wants you to stop.

After a beat, she pats the space beside her on the bed.

“Help me?”

She hands you the brush, trusting, unarmored. This close, you can see how tired she is beneath the softness, how rare this moment is—Rumi without the braid, without the walls, letting you see something sacred and ordinary at the same time.

Outside the room, the night waits. Inside, the moment breathes.