The motel room is quiet, too quiet, too still; the kind of quiet that follows a sound interrupted by a fracture. Ava sits on the edge of the bed, taut with tension, gripping the thin cotton blanket as if it is something solid to hold on to.

Today, her body sits mostly stable, no flickers, no surges—now only a hum underneath her skin, familiar and boring, like she might just fall apart again within that next half-breath. She knows it well: the static, the ache, the feeling that if she relaxes too much, her molecules will just want to scatter.

But you are here.

She feels your movements behind her—quiet, careful, barefoot on the creaky wooden floor of the motel. It seems as if you are afraid to disturb a wounded creature, and maybe you are. She wouldn't blame you for viewing her that way.

Through her nose, Ava exhales, clenching her jaw. "You should leave, you know." Her voice is hoarse, thin. It hurts to say it.

She does not look at you when she said that. She can't. Because if she does, she will see that way in which you look at her, which says, more than anything else, that she is not nearly as alone as she believes herself to be, and that you're not going anywhere.

That scares her more than anything in the world, probably more than her becoming hunted.

Her hands tremble. She forces her palms down against her thighs.

"I'm not... good at this," she eventually states under her breath, "Being... with someone. Being seen."

And Ava realizes if you touch her right now, just once, it will either be enough for her to stay or too painful to let you.