The Reception

Cotton Feels Like An Imposter

“I saw you smiling,” Cotton said. She turned to look at Jasmin. “She was insulting me, and you were smiling.”

Jasmin flinched. “I wasn’t smiling at her. I was smiling because I was uncomfortable. I freeze when people are aggressive. It’s a trauma response, Cotton. Not an endorsement.”

Cotton looked at her. Jasmin didn’t look effortless anymore. She looked anxious. She was picking at a loose thread on her dress.

“I felt like a prop,” Cotton whispered.

“I know,” Jasmin said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you. Not because you don’t belong, but because they don’t deserve you.”

She took Cotton’s hand. Her palm was sweating.

“I hate these things,” Jasmin admitted. “I feel like a fraud every time I open my mouth. I brought you because… because you make me feel real.”

The Choice

Cotton looked at their hands. The barista’s hand—scarred from burns, stained with ink. The philosopher’s hand—smooth, nervous.

“I’m not a project,” Cotton said.

“I know.”

“And I’m not a break from thinking.”

“You’re the only thing I think about,” Jasmin said.

Cotton took a breath. The cold air filled her lungs.

She could leave. She could go home to her safe, silent apartment and classify this as a failure.

Or she could stay.

She squeezed Jasmin’s hand.

“I want to go home,” Cotton said.

“Me too,” Jasmin said. “My place or yours?”

Cotton thought about her apartment. The color-coded books. The wooden box with the empty space.

“Yours,” Cotton said. “It’s messier.”

Jasmin smiled. A real smile this time.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They stood up. They didn’t go back for their coats.

They walked away from the Faculty Club, leaving the wine and the crackers and the theories behind.