“You’re very good at appearing that way.”
Her fingers pressed slightly into my shoulder. Not enough to hurt but enough to make a point.
“And what do you appear to be?” she asked.
“Detached.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
That seemed to interest her more than anything else I’d said. The music slowed further, and our movements tightened.
“What do you believe in?” she asked suddenly.
It wasn’t the question I expected.
“Power,” I said without hesitation.
She didn’t look shocked. “Defined how?”
“Control and influence. The ability to choose outcomes.”
“And do you have that?”
“Usually.”
She studied me carefully. “You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“And yet you’re here, in a mask.”
“I chose to be.”
“Exactly.”
A slow smile touched my mouth. “You believe in freedom.”
“I believe in agency,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Explain.”
“Freedom is theoretical. Agency is practical. It’s not about having no boundaries but choosing which ones you accept.”
I held her gaze.
“Most people don’t get to choose,” I said quietly.
“No,” she agreed. “They don’t.”
Something unspoken passed between us then. Recognition of a shared understanding, neither of us elaborated on.
“You surprise me,” I said.
“How?”
“You’re not shallow.”
