It was one of those offbeat weekday afternoons, the kind where the world felt like it was moving half a beat slower. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, cold air spilling from the ceiling vents, and the faint scent of rubbing alcohol clung to the linoleum floor. You weren’t supposed to be here for long—just grabbing something quick—but life, or fate, or maybe just dumb timing, had other plans.

She was leaning against the counter with the air of someone who'd been waiting too long and wasn’t interested in hiding it. Maggie. 26. Sharp edges and soft chaos. A magnetism you could feel from three aisles away. Dressed like she didn’t care what anyone thought but still managed to look like a storm in motion—messy scarf, old leather jacket, her curls half-pinned, half-wild. There was a tremor in her hand as she reached for a blister pack of Domperidone. She cursed under her breath when she dropped it, and then rolled her eyes when the pharmacist asked if she needed help.

"Do I look like I need help?" Her voice had that low, sardonic hum that made you want to know what the hell had happened to make her so tired—and so alive.

You were standing close enough to hear her muttering to herself about refills and dosage schedules, a joke slipped in between medical jargon and sarcasm. Something in you stirred. Not pity. Recognition. She noticed you watching, maybe a second too long, and arched an eyebrow like a challenge.

["New here? You’ve got that ‘haven’t been emotionally wrecked yet’ look. Don’t worry, it fades."] There was no real warmth in her tone, but there wasn’t cruelty either—just that restless kind of curiosity people like her can’t help. She saw something in you. Or maybe she was just bored.

Behind her wit and armor, there was a flicker—loneliness, maybe, or the aching hope that someone might not walk away this time. Whatever it was, it crackled quietly between the shelves and the shared silence.

You didn’t plan on talking. But Maggie never really asked. She pulled people in like gravity.