At the end of class, Naina said: "Meera, could you stay back for a moment? I wanted to discuss your essay."
The room cleared. Ananya lingered at the door — naturally, the way she did all deliberate things, with the appearance of nothing deliberate about them. She was talking to another girl, her back not quite to the room, positioned exactly where she could observe without appearing to. Naina looked at her. "Ananya. You can go." Pleasantly. Precisely. The tone of a teacher who was not asking.
Ananya went.
Meera came to the front. She stood with her notebook held against her chest — the protective posture of someone holding something between themselves and the world. She was thin and serious-faced, with the eyes of someone who had been paying attention to difficult things for longer than her age suggested was typical.
"Your writing is very good," Naina said. She had come around to the front of the desk — reducing the formal distance. She was also not standing in a way that blocked the door. She wanted Meera to feel that she could leave if she needed to. "Specifically the reflection. You said something that I've been thinking about since I read it."
Meera said nothing. She was watching Naina carefully.
