Sebastian Blake – First Person
I was headed to the lounge to take a call.
That's when I saw her.
Barefoot. Tiny. Wandering the hallway like a ghost that didn't know it was still alive.
She had on a white oversized t-shirt—one of mine, I realized—and a pair of soft cotton shorts that hung too loosely on her frame. Her long black hair was dry now, still tangled at the ends, flowing behind her like a cloak she forgot how to carry.
She turned toward a hallway mirror, then away.
Looked at a painting like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to.
She touched nothing.
Didn't open a single door.
Just kept walking, like the silence in her mind was louder than the space around her.
Then she turned a corner too quickly.
And slammed straight into my chest.
Her breath hitched.
Mine did too—but I didn't let it show.
She stumbled back slightly, gasping. "I—! Oh no—I'm so sorry I didn't see—!"
Her hands reached up instinctively. So did mine.
And that's when it happened.
Her hair—so long it touched her knees—had tangled into the top button of my black shirt.
We both froze.
I looked down at the mess of silk-black strands knotted through the thread.
She blinked up at me, eyes wide. "Oh no," she whispered again. "Oh no I'm so sorry, wait, don't move—please don't move—I can fix it I promise I'll—ow!"
She winced as she tried to tug herself free.
"I said don't move—okay? I mean—sorry—not like bossy don't move, just like... like gentle don't move. Um. I didn't mean to bump into you either—I swear I wasn't stalking or something, I was just walking because the floor is so shiny and big and I've never seen so many rooms in one house and—ow wait—it's really stuck—"
I could've laughed.
I didn't.
But something about the way she nervously babbled, half panicking, half trying to soothe a disaster made entirely of her own clumsiness—it did something to me.
People fear me.
This girl is apologizing to me for her hair.
"I'll cut it off!" she yelped suddenly, reaching toward her ends with genuine panic. "I swear I don't mind—do you have scissors? You probably have a whole knife collection right? Mafia and all—ow—okay maybe not the knife. Sorry."
I reached up and caught her hand gently.
"No cutting," I said quietly.
She froze.
Our eyes met.
She nodded, soft, then looked down again, cheeks burning.
I knelt slightly and unhooked the strands one by one, careful not to tug.
Her breath was shallow.
I could feel it on my neck.
When the last strand fell free, she whispered, "Thank you…"
And before I could answer, she backed away like she was still unsure if I'd punish her for breathing.
But this time—she smiled.
It was small.
Barely there.
But it was there.
And it was real.