You’ve never cared about lines. Not in school, when you’d take things straight out of her hands, trip her in crowded corridors, or rest your arm on her shoulder like you had every right. Not now, where nothing has really changed — just the setting, the faces, the excuses people make for you. You still walk into her space like it belongs to you. Still interrupt. Still touch. Still decide. Like access was never something you had to earn. Like it was always yours.