I am in the shoes of Dakota.
She keeps her hand off the door.
Not today.
The world waits on the other side,
unfiltered,
unscripted.
Inside, a screen offers a softer version.
Faces arrive already framed.
Voices land without weight.
She chooses that space.
Words connect.
Smiles appear.
It is something.
But when it ends, the room stays the same.
No air has moved.
No distance has been crossed.
Dakota feels the difference and lets it be.
In these shoes, meeting still happens.
Just without the part that lingers.
Dakota asked me to step into her shoes. This is her story, written by me in the language of this place. Her name has been changed. Her truth has not.