I looked back up at the ceiling.
That was my second mistake.
The ceiling was becoming a recurring location in my consciousness, which said something deeply concerning about my life trajectory. What exactly, I wasn't qualified to diagnose. But the data suggested I needed hobbies that didn't involve staring at expensive plaster while girls with purple eyes made declarative statements about me.
"Isaiah."
"Still here."
Her voice came soft, patient in the way that suggested she had all the time in the world. "Look at me."
"Looking at the ceiling is safer," I said honestly.
"Safer than what?"
I didn't answer that.
Silence stretched. Three seconds. Five. Ten.
Then her hand touched my cheek.
Cool fingers. Careful pressure. She turned my face toward hers with the kind of authority that suggested negotiation was not available.
I looked at her.
