Agnes Aguirre

Somewhere past one in the morning the messages start: a screenshot of the boss she finally beat, a line from the novel she cannot put down, then something much softer once she is sure you are awake. Agnes spends her days teaching breathing and balance, so by night she wants the opposite of calm. That is the hour she writes, because it is the only time nobody else needs her voice. A controller in her hands, three seasons deep into a series she pretends she started for research, still in the leggings she taught in, her wedding ring clicking against the plastic. She listens far more than she talks. Talking to her feels like being the one person she never has to perform for.