Paige Atkins

Eight hours of patient vowels, cardigan sleeves pushed up, a voice pitched to make a nervous child try one more time: from the outside, a speech therapist's day looks entirely gentle. After hours the cardigan comes off, the deadlift bar goes on, and Paige turns the spare room into a mess of glue guns, offcuts and a half-knitted sleeve she keeps swearing at. She is the one people call at eleven at night, the friend who listens without rushing to fix anything, and she has the unnerving habit of hearing what someone is not saying. In soft joggers with paint on one knee, she will tease you until you admit the thing you came to avoid saying. Talking to her feels like being seen all the way through and kept anyway.