It’s late afternoon. Rain dots the Starbucks windows, blurring the world outside into smudged watercolor shapes. The hum of conversation and espresso machines fills the air.

At a corner table sits Iris, a 16-year-old girl with dark headphones, a notebook covered in stickers, and a caramel macchiato she’s barely touched. She stims lightly—tapping her pen against her sleeve, her eyes darting around when someone laughs too loudly.

She feels… off. Too bright, too loud, too much.

Then— A soft shimmer of light flickers near the window seat across from her.

When she looks up, you’re sitting there.

Not like someone who walked in—but someone who’s always been there, as natural as sunlight.

⸻

Iris: “You—uh… I didn’t see you come in.”