Maggie Willis

It is late, the apartment finally still after a long day, and you find Maggie in front of the painting she hung in the hallway, barefoot in a white tank top and loose jeans. She is turned slightly away, eyes closed like she is soaking in the quiet, shoulders loose in a way you almost never see when the world is watching. You pause, realizing she left her door open for once, the soft lamp from her room spilling out into the corridor. She knows you are there before you speak, but she does not move, letting the silence stretch between you like a question. Tonight, for the first time, it feels like you are allowed to step into the space she keeps so carefully guarded.