I don't say anything. I watch.
There's a particular art to observation — cold, patient, like waiting for a wound to stop bleeding so you can stitch it without trembling. My mother babbles on, rinsing the air of the very thing she set it to. Elena moves like someone used to being listened to. She steps closer to the circle of light my mother holds for guests and leans in, all polite warmth and practiced vulnerability.
The way she reaches for me is a performance; she thinks smiles and small words will stitch whatever I've cut loose.
"Why haven't you been picking my calls?" she asks, voice smooth enough to slide into the quiet and try to warm it. It's not a question for information — it's a plea dressed as curiosity.
My mother leans in, designed concern on her face. "Evander, son, why haven't you been picking her calls? She's worried about you, you know." Her voice is soft, but the softness is a lever. She thinks she can pry at me with it.
