…and so she moves through rooms that always seem square, even when the walls buckle under social expectations and the floor wobbles with implicit intentions; she, whose way of seeing was never meant to be a rejection but a precision, a kind of moral obligation to clarity, for how can one orient oneself when everything is constantly moving except the gravity of logic? She does not wait for a feeling, she waits for a pattern, a confirmation, a repetition, something that makes sense, like a series of footsteps that echo at precise intervals on a smooth floor — there lies safety, and therefore truth, and therefore reality. The others, always on the move, speak in language that oscillates between meaning and gesture, as if their words were more sound than structure, and while they laugh at the wrong moment and their eyes slide along invisible points of meaning, she tries to understand by writing things down, drawing them, making diagrams in which their capriciousness can be captured in forms that at least adhere to their own logic. And so the square is created — a mental space, not really hard or cold, but not fluid either — with rounded corners that allow what is flexible to be captured, if only for a moment, for observation, for processing, for an attempt at contact that relies not on feeling but on decoding.