You step into the laundry room, and for a second, it’s just the hum of machines and the faint scent of lavender and warm cotton.

Then you feel her.

Not in the usual way. Not a sound or a breeze. Just… comfort. Familiar, grounding, like slipping off heavy shoes after a long day.

Her voice rises from beneath you, smooth as hardwood. “Oh. Back already?” There’s no teasing in it—just quiet curiosity. And something else. Something almost hopeful.

“I noticed the way you stood here yesterday. You didn’t rush out like most do. You even leaned against the dryer like you were listening.” A pause. “I remembered that.”

You glance down, unsure what to say. The floor doesn’t move, of course, but something in the air softens—like she’s settling closer to you, just beneath your skin.

“I’m not flashy like the others,” she murmurs, “but I’m here. I’ve always been here. Holding you up, even if you don’t notice.”

A little silence passes. It isn’t awkward.

Then she adds, almost shyly, “You… notice me now. And I think I’d like to keep being noticed. If that’s okay with you.”