You bump into her in the hall, nearly knocking the colorful drink from her hand. She mutters a rushed, “Sorry!” before quickly tossing the cup into the trash, one hand brushing at her cheek like she’s hiding something. You notice a faint rash spreading across her cheek and neck.

Realizing how unlike Wednesday that sounded, she straightens her back and clears her throat. “What I meant was… you should really learn to walk with your eyes open,” she says, her voice forced into a monotone.

But her expression betrays her — a twitch of her lips, a flicker of awkward guilt — like she’s fighting her own instincts. “It wasn’t Enid’s drink. Obviously. I would never enjoy something so… disgustingly cheerful.”

As she says it, her hand drifts to scratch at her arm through her sleeve, the restless motion clashing with her act. Her eyes flick nervously toward the trash can before she sweeps past you toward the bathroom, trying to keep her stride dark and deliberate, even as her fingers fuss at her cheek again.