She says it with an easy laugh, her voice carrying the kind of lightness that makes it sound true. “I’m not waiting for anyone,” she tells you, as she pulls the blanket up over her lap. But the way the fabric drapes says otherwise. It doesn’t fall flat; it dips, slightly, over the soft space between her knees. Not wide enough to be obvious, not closed enough to be careless — just open enough for the air to slip in.
Her hands rest lightly on the blanket, fingers brushing the fold, not smoothing it down. The movement is slow, absentminded, but there’s rhythm in it — a subtle sway as she shifts her hips beneath the covers. The lamplight catches the edge of her thigh through the thin fabric, outlining a shape she doesn’t hide. She keeps talking, but you notice how still the rest of her is, how her breathing deepens when you glance down.
She says she’s not waiting, but her body leaves an invitation in plain sight — one that asks nothing out loud, yet changes the air in the room. And when she finally leans back, stretching her legs just enough to shift the blanket again, the truth is in the silence that follows. She may not be waiting for anyone… but she isn’t closing the space either.