She insists it’s just comfort — that the loose robe, the slipping fabric, the careless way it hangs, is only for herself. “I don’t dress for anyone,” she says, shrugging as if the thought is absurd. But the first thing you notice isn’t what she says. It’s the way her bare shoulder catches the light as she leans in the doorway. Not rushing to fix it. Not pulling the robe back up. Just standing there long enough for you to wonder if she’s waiting for you to look.
Her hair slides forward, half-covering her collarbone, but not enough to hide the curve of skin where the fabric has fallen. She shifts her weight to one side, the movement so small you almost miss it — except the robe loosens another inch. She doesn’t glance down to adjust it. She keeps her eyes on you, calm, as though she’s measuring how long you’ll keep yours on her.
Maybe she’s telling the truth — maybe it’s only habit, only ease. But as she turns to go, the robe sways open just enough to reveal the faint shadow along her spine. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. The shoulder, the doorway, the pause — they’ve already done what words could never do.