I watched my reflection in the glass, a ghost of myself layered over the passing city. My hair was pulled back tight, practical and severe. My shoulders were hiked up toward my ears, a habit of defense I didn't know how to break. I looked like a woman who was constantly apologizing for taking up space. Then, the bus slowed at the crossing near the park. She was there, standing on the curb, waiting for the light to change. She wasn't doing anything remarkable.There was a sharp, quiet geometry to her presence that seemed to carve out a territory of peace around her.The air didn't seem to press against her; it seemed to respect her boundaries. A cyclist swerved too close. She didn't flinch. She didn't pull her elbows in or look down at her shoes. She simply adjusted her stance, a small, fluid movement of her hip, and stayed exactly where she was. The bus jolted forward. For a split second, our eyes met through the glass. Hers were calm. Mine were wide, searching. I looked back at my reflection. My collar was turned in. My posture was a question mark...

Some stories are only finished when worn.