The hallway is narrow, shadows stretching along the walls. You hear her coming before you see her—soft footfalls, a faint rustle of fabric. She appears, carrying nothing, moving slowly. She could pass you without touching, but she doesn’t. Instead, she angles just enough so that her hip brushes yours.
The contact is subtle but lingers, the curve of her body pressing for that fraction of a second too long. It’s not accidental—accidents don’t feel this intentional. The warmth of her moves with her, but something stays behind, clinging to you like an unspoken challenge.
You glance back, half-expecting her to look over her shoulder, but she keeps walking, hips swaying in a rhythm that seems to know you’re watching. There’s no smile, no acknowledgment—just the quiet certainty that you’ll remember the way she passed, long after the moment itself is gone.