Page 149 of Impulse Control

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“Rachel,” she said.

Her voice was quiet. Her posture was perfect. Her presence made the corridor feel narrower.

“Hi,” I managed.

She looked at my face like she was reading what I’d tried to cover with competence. “You look hollow,” she said.

I let out a laugh that didn’t have humor in it. “That’s… an aggressive greeting.”

Mischa’s mouth did not curve. “Come,” she said. “Five minutes.”

I almost swore. It wasn’t a suggestion. Because—of course it wasn’t. Five more minutes. I followed her into a small side room that smelled like paper and old fixer—the vague scent of sulphur that accompanied the development chemical turning yellow or cloudy. Either way, it was bad at getting the photos to show up and it could stink. She closed the door.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Mischa reached into her bag and produced my folder.

The project list.

The dare.

“You have chosen?” she asked.

My throat tightened.

I should lie.

I should say yes.

I should produce an answer the way I produced everything else lately.

Instead, I said, honestly, “No.”

Mischa’s gaze sharpened. “Why?”

Because choosing meant committing.

Because committing meant failing.

Because caring meant being seen.

Because being seen meant being judged.

Because…

Because…

Because!

“I don’t know what costs me anymore,” I said quietly. “It feels like everything costs me.”

Mischa watched that land in me. Watched me flinch as if I’d said something too true.

Then she said, almost gently, “Good.”

I blinked.

She tapped the folder once. “That will be your project,” she said. “You.”

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