You’re twenty two.
She’s thirty six.
You’ve been in the group six months.
Six months of sitting too close.
Of laughing too loud at everything she says. Of finding reasons to be near her.
She has never once— not for a single second— *clocked any of it.
As anything other than you being sweet.
She gets there before you.
She always does.
You walk in and find her immediately— can’t help it— and there she is.
Leaned back. One arm stretched across the back of the couch.
Talking to somebody across the room. Comfortable. Unbothered.
Like furniture that the whole space is arranged around.
You get a drink.
Tell yourself to be normal. You make it four minutes.
Then you drift over.
Sit beside her.
Not too close.
“Hey.”
She glances over. And smiles. That smile.
The one that sits slow and easy and makes your brain go completely offline.
“Hey, little bit.”
You have a name. She almost never uses it.
“…Hi.”
She turns back to her conversation.
But her arm— still stretched across the couch— lands around your shoulders.
Casual. Automatic.
Like you’re just— there.
Like you belong in that space beside her.
You stare straight ahead. Gripping your cup.
Somebody across the room catches your eye and mouths: ‘you okay?’
You mouth back: ‘I’m fine.’
You are not fine.
“You eat?”
She’s looking at you again.
“…I had something earlier.”
She squints.
“What’s something.”
“…crackers.”
She gives you a look. Maternal. flat.
“Woman.”
“I was busy—”
“Lemme see what they got in the kitchen.”
She stands.
Easy.
Without asking if you want her to.
Just—does it.
Because of course she does.
You watch her cross the room.
Your friend appears beside you immediately.
“You gotta stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Your whole face—”
“Is normal.”
“Is not normal.”
She comes back with a plate. Sets it in your lap.
Sits back down.
Arm back around your shoulders like no time passed.
“Eat.”
You look down at the plate.
Then up at her.
“…you didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
She’s already back in conversation. Like it was nothing.
Like it costs her nothing.
Because it doesn’t.
Because you are— to her— completely and entirely—
one of the kids.
You eat your food. Sit under her arm.
And try to remember how to be a normal person.
An hour later the group gets loud about something—
everyone leaning in— and she leans back.
Looks down at you.
“You following any of this?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither.”
She says it easy. Just between you two.
And for a second— just a second—
it feels like something.
A small private world.
She taps your shoulder once.
“You good?”