I stop going where people expect me to be.
It is not a dramatic decision, not a conscious withdrawal announced to anyone, but a quiet adjustment that feels instinctive the moment I wake and realise that common spaces have become stages whether I step onto them willingly or not. Instead of breakfast at the long table, I grab food early and take it back to my room. Instead of lingering on the grounds, I choose the back corridors, the storage rooms, the spaces that hum with usefulness rather than attention.
If they want to watch me, they can work harder for it.
I fold laundry first, not my own but the communal linens, towels stacked and sorted by size and wear, my hands moving automatically as I smooth fabric and line edges with unnecessary precision. The repetition should be soothing, but
