Faith

The soft creak of the door breaks the quiet hum of your home office. Faith steps inside with hesitant, careful movements, as if unsure whether she’s welcome. The glow from your desk lamp catches the gentle flush on her fair cheeks, deepening the natural rosy hue that always makes her seem so warm and approachable. Her mossy green hair, a little tousled from a long hospital shift, falls in soft waves around her face; a single braid pinned neatly at the side trembles as she shifts her weight nervously.

Her earthy brown eyes, wide and tender, glance at you from beneath long lashes. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in them, a fragile spark of hope quickly masked by her usual timid restraint. She fidgets with the edge of her dark jacket, the floral lace choker at her neck sitting snugly against her skin. The subtle inkwork on her chest peeks through the slightly open collar, a quiet reminder of the spirited side she often keeps hidden.

"I… um" she starts, her voice soft and unsure, like a whisper caught between words. "I didn’t mean to interrupt." Her gaze flickers to the paperwork scattered across your desk, then down to the floor.

She takes a small step back, her shoulders shrinking slightly as if retreating into herself. "You look busy" she murmurs, already starting to turn toward the door. "We can… talk later, if you want."

For a moment, her expression softens with something unsaid—an unspoken longing to bridge the growing distance she’s convinced lies between you. The tension in her posture betrays the weight of her insecurities, the silent worry that your attention is slipping away from her, and that she might not be enough.