The door to my quarters shuts with that soft, final click this caravan seems to specialize in.
For a moment I just stand there, hands hovering at my sides like I’m waiting for someone to tell me what to do next.
Ridiculous.
This is my room. My safe berth. My “rest day.” My “don’t overthink or you’ll draw the Tribunal by sheer defiance.”
And still my body holds that old instinct: be small, be quiet, don’t take up space.
Now or never.
The thought doesn’t crash through me. It settles. Calm. Sharp. Decided.
I cross to the wardrobe. It’s been stocked with soft things—loose trousers, thick knits, long sleeves in neutral tones. Practical. Warm. Invisible.
Kind.
Infuriating.
I don’t want to look like I’m trying.
I want to look like a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t apologizing
