She began showering at work sometimes, stealing ten minutes of unsupervised steam after the gym. In that locker room, water was just water—no countdown nor commentary. She’d return home smelling the same but feeling different, because privacy had a scent she could keep to herself.
A colleague’s dinner loomed; Aaron suggested they “rehearse greetings.” Not too bright, not too soft, shoulders free but straight. Evelyn practiced lines like she was auditioning to play herself. He clapped, delighted. “You’ll be perfect,” he promised. She wondered when “perfection” had replaced “interesting” and “beautiful” in his list of compliments.