Elara had learned, early and painfully, that politeness could be mistaken for permission.
The campus was louder today—voices colliding, shoes scuffing stone, laughter bursting without apology. She kept her head inclined, steps measured, breath steady. New eyes were everywhere. She felt them like fingertips she could not swat away.
"Morning," Leon said, appearing beside her as though summoned by thought.
She startled despite herself. "Oh—hi."
He smiled. Too easy. Too practiced. The sort of smile that assumed it would be returned.
"You walk like you're listening to something no one else can hear," he said, matching her pace. "Music?"
Elara hesitated. "Just… thinking."
"Dangerous habit," he laughed. "People start expecting things."
She smiled because she'd been taught to. The smile felt brittle, like glass stretched thin.
They walked in step. That was the first mistake.
