I thought of the fluorescent stickers on my sill, how the repetition of light had become a sort of ritual for me. Had I been making myself into something too? The thought cut like cold glass. For the first time in months I felt my habit under my own scrutiny as if someone had pointed a microscope at my chest.
Avery's world didn't register the subtlety. She never gave herself the room to see nuance; she had trimmed every hedge to a single alley. When he suggested slowing, she took it as a shutdown. She went quiet, then frantic. The lattice that had been a comfort turned brittle; the lines she had drawn reflected the light back at her in sharp angles.
Avery had always been known for her keen observational skills. Her friends often joked that she could notice the smallest details that others would easily overlook. Jane, her close friend, would sometimes tease her about being overly analytical, but deep down, she admired Avery's unique perspective.
