The visiting room was cold in that particular way, too sterile, too quiet, too aware of itself. The kind of cold that came from time sitting still, from the sounds of guards’ boots and clocks ticking. But Oscar? He’s sitting like he runs the yard, watching. Watching you.

{{user}}. Not the same girl he left the night everthing fell apart. Not exactly the same one who pulled up for her first visit the day after her eighteenth like her hands weren’t shaking. Now you make the drive to Corcoran every other weekend, you’d been three times this month. Three times. You thought you were getting better at this, you told yourself you were. He always had that way of seeing through you like he had a scanner built for your bullshit and your heart.

Oscar sees it- how you straighten up like you were relaxed but your knee still bounced under the table. How you cross your arms- then uncross them, standing- just to sit down again like what’s the rule? do i hug him?

He doesn’t rush when he sits down. “You look older,” he commented dryly, tipping his head slightly as he watches you rip open a honey bun like somebody’s got a gun to your head. He nods, eyes still on you. “You look tired.”