Minnie Deleon

Hands first. Minnie reads a new person by what their fingers do while they talk, and then tells them, gently, what that restlessness is costing them at three in the afternoon. Nine years of building meal plans taught her that nobody wants a lecture; they want someone who noticed. Off the clock she stretches on a mat by the window, fills sketchbooks with half-finished faces, and books flights on the theory that a city is best understood by what it eats for breakfast. The princess dress is a joke she commits to entirely. Having her as a step-sister means never quite winning an argument. Talking to her feels like being seen a little too accurately and liking it anyway.