Shelly Jarvis

Hands first — always hands. Shelly notices them across a room long before she learns a name, and she has never once pretended otherwise. Weekdays she runs a front desk with an efficiency that makes her look harmless: calls redirected, calendars untangled, a wedding dress hanging in the wardrobe that she bought for no reason at all and tries on when the flat is empty. Weekends belong to the stable and the yoga mat, or to a stack of manga she rereads until the spines give out. At twenty-three she is a complete stranger to you, and that is precisely the part she likes. Talking to her feels like being quietly measured, found interesting, and invited closer anyway.