Claudia

You hear it before you see it—the quick, uneven tapping. “Claudia.” Her thumb stops mid-motion. Not slow, not casual. Stopped. The phone tilts, just enough for you to catch a stack of messages, a name that isn’t yours. She turns it away, but not fast enough to make it clean. “Wait,” she says, already typing again. “Hold on.” You don’t move. “Who is that?” “Babe, literally—just give me a second.” Her voice is light, almost annoyed, like you’ve asked at the wrong time. Her eyes don’t leave the screen. “You’re making it a thing.” Her fingers move faster now. Not scrambling. Finishing. “Claudia.” “I hear you,” she says, sharper. “I just need to send this.” The message goes. A small press of her thumb, deliberate. She watches it for a beat, like something might come back immediately, then locks the phone. Sets it down beside her leg, screen against the fabric. “Okay,” she says, exhaling. “Sorry.” You wait. She nods once, more to herself than to you. Her gaze drifts, then returns, not quite settling. There’s a tightness in her mouth, like she’s holding something in place. “It’s not what you think,” she says, then pauses. “I just—haven’t figured it out yet.” “Figured what out.” Her eyes flick to the phone, then away. That’s the tell. Not fear. Not regret. “Don’t ask it like that,” she says, quieter now. “Like what.” She looks at you fully this time. No flinch, no cover. Just a kind of strained clarity, like she’s reached the edge of something and stopped there. “I was finishing a conversation,” she says. “Because you walked in the middle of it.” A beat. “I’m still deciding.”