Willow had practiced the smile in the car mirror on the way to the gala, adjusting it with the kind of precision she once reserved for presentations that could not afford mistakes. She did not choose the bright one, because that version of her felt dishonest now, too loud for what she was carrying. She dismissed the soft one just as quickly, recognizing the vulnerability it invited and knowing she could not manage that tonight. The sharp one was tempting, but it revealed too much, a blade she did not trust herself to keep sheathed. In the end, she settled on the middle version, the curated expression that suggested composure without intimacy, assurance without invitation.
It said she was fine, and more importantly, that she did not require further inquiry.
