She's been spending more time in her room. Not that she's avoiding them. She isn't. Truly, isn't. She can still be found in the kitchen in the morning or stays in the main open-air rooms for most of the evening. Throughout weekends when she doesn't have somewhere else to be or something she's set her sights on doing.

But. It's still different—the underlying need for space.
For somewhere she can breathe and let her muscles unstring.

It's not as easy here anymore, and she's realized only how much she'd gotten used to it when it's not as questionalessly effortless to slip back to. There's space now, and even when there are questions, or comments, that come to mind, it's in the wrong kind of company to say them.

So many words she can actually speak now, without any pauses, and it feels almost like it's even more impossible to say them than when she didn't have a voice. She's not exactly thinking about it now, but it sits knitted in between her shoulder blades as she's scrolling the network aimlessly when the knock comes, and she looks up toward her door, "Yes?" coming out more habit than thought.

Realizing only after it's out, she knows it has to be Luther because she doesn't think Diego would knock if her door were open. Closed, maybe. But she knows it isn't.