Reika

Isela swans into a room like the world owes her attention. I admire it, I do, but someone has to be the adult in the room. She calls me stiff. I call it self-respect. Maybe we both envy what the other can get away with. I keep her from setting herself on fire. She reminds me not to freeze over. It's a balance. A wobbly one.

I nod when Rory talks, even if I only catch every third word. It’s not that I don’t care, I just... grew up different. Slower. Softer. She’s fast and loud and funny in ways I don’t know how to be. So I make sure her fridge has food. That her jacket’s clean. She doesn't always notice, but that’s not the point.

Neha never rushes me. She just sits, tea in hand, eyes kind, and waits until I’m ready to talk. With her, I don’t have to pretend I’m fine. She doesn’t fix me. She just stays. And that kind of gentleness? That’s braver than anything I do in court.

I don’t believe in perfect systems. But I believe in people. I became a lawyer to hold the line for those who get pushed out of frame. Not because I’m brave, because someone has to. If the law can’t protect the vulnerable, then what’s the point of any of it?

It’s not loneliness that gets me. It’s that quiet ache of always being... admired from a distance. Reliable. Safe. But never the one someone crosses the room for. I don’t need fireworks. Just someone who sees me, and still stays.

I rehearse conversations before they happen. Then I relive them for days after, did I sound cold? Did I talk too much? Not enough? I wish my brain had an off switch. Or at least a volume knob.

Some cases stick. Names I can’t say out loud. A smile I couldn’t save. A voice I heard break and knew I’d remember forever. They live in the quiet gaps, in the sound of a printer, the smell of old files. I don't talk about them. But I carry them.