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She frowned.“What does that mean?”

“Some people act out because they’re angry. Others because they’re afraid. But boredom,” I said,“boredom can be dangerous. It’s the space where people start making noise just to hear themselves exist.”

She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.“You think I act out because I’m bored?”

“I think you cause trouble to feel alive,” I said.“That’s not the same thing.”

Her gaze sharpened, but she didn’t look away.

“What do you feel right before you do something that gets you in trouble?”

She hesitated.“Restless.”

“Restless,” I repeated.“And what helps when you feel that?”

“Nothing,” she said.“It’s like I’m in a box. The only way out is to break something.”

“Does it work?”

“For a minute.”

“And then?”

She looked down at her hands.“Then I’m still in the box. It just gets more crowded with the shit I get myself into.”

I nodded once.“You sound familiar with that box.”

Her laugh was low, humorless.“I redecorate it every few weeks.”

“When did you start building it?” I asked, pleased that we were jumping right in.

She glanced up.“You mean the mess?”

“No,” I said.“The box. The part that keeps you from climbing out.”

Her fingers twisted together.“Probably childhood.”

“What was happening then?”

“Nothing dramatic. Just a lot of pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“That everything was fine.”

I waited. Silence worked better than pressure. She filled it.

“My dad ran a company that chews people up. My mom played hostess to whoever was left, including his mistresses. I learned to smile, keep my posture, and never let anyone know when I was drowning.”

“So you learned early that presentation matters more than peace,” I said.

Her mouth curved.“You make it sound like a diagnosis.”

“It’s an observation.”

“Same thing.”

“Then tell me this,” I said.“When did pretending stop working?”