My pen was balanced between my fingers, but my eyes were fixed on the dust motes dancing in a single shaft of sunlight. I felt like one of them, small, drifting, entirely dependent on which way the air moved. Then, the heavy swing-door creaked open. She walked in alone. She wasn't carrying a stack of books or a heavy laptop bag. She just had a small notebook tucked under her arm. She was enveloped in something that looked like it was made of shadows, a deep, muted weight that sat perfectly against her frame. It didn't rustle. It didn't announce her. But as she moved down the aisle, the room seemed to rearrange itself to make sense of her. She didn't look for the safe seat in the corner. She didn't scan the room to see who was watching. She walked to the very center table, pulled out a chair, the wood scraping loudly against the stone floor, and sat down. I watched her open her notebook. Her movements were deliberate. She didn't fidget with her sleeves or check her phone. She looked like she owned the air she was breathing...

Some stories are only finished when worn.