A narrow escape

The sorting has been going well—piles of denim, a growing donation bag, Wren clicking away with her camera and murmuring notes into her phone's voice memo app. You've just finished folding a stack of Janelle's graphic tees by color when Priya holds up a hanger with a triumphant noise.

"Oh my God. Riley. Look at this."

It's a dress. A wrap dress in deep burgundy silk, with a plunging neckline and a tie waist that would cinch beautifully. The fabric catches the bedroom light like wine.

"That's my aunt's," Janelle says, wrinkling her nose. "She left it here like three years ago. I forgot I even had it."

Priya holds it against your shoulder, eyeing the color against your skin. "Riley. This is literally your color. Like, your exact color. You have to try it on."

"It's gorgeous," Wren adds, camera already raised. "I need this for the blog. Before and after—closet rescue, style transformation. You trying it on would be perfect."

"Guys, we're supposed to be organizing, not—"

"Just slip it on over your top!" Priya is already untying the wrap, holding it open like a dressing room attendant. "Five seconds. We just want to see the color on you."

Your stomach drops. The breast forms sit snug under your tee, the adhesive tabs holding them flush against your chest—but if someone pulled fabric across them, or worse, if the wrap dress shifted and exposed the edge where silicone meets skin... And the joggers. The joggers that hide everything below the waist. You can't take off your jacket, your tee, anything.

"I really don't think—"

"Come on, it'll take two seconds!" Wren sets down her camera and crosses the room, dress in hand now, both of them flanking you. "You're our style consultant! We need to see your instincts in action."

"This isn't about my instincts, this is about—" You step back, hands up, smile fixed. "We're not even halfway through the tops pile. Let's stay focused."

Priya pouts. "You're no fun."

"I'm extremely fun. I'm fun-organizing fun."

Janelle has gone quiet. She's watching you from the bed, braids loose around her shoulders, one hand resting on a pile of folded sweaters. Her eyes track from your face to your crossed arms to the way you've angled your body slightly away from the room.

"Hey," she says, voice softer than the others. "She said no. Drop it."

Priya blinks. "I was just—"

"I know. But she's not comfortable." Janelle's gaze stays on you, steady and warm, and you see something flicker there—not suspicion exactly, but recognition. Like she's filing away a piece of a puzzle she's been quietly assembling. "We can admire the dress on the hanger. It's a beautiful piece."

Wren lowers the dress, chastened. "Sorry, Riley. I got carried away with the blog thing."

"It's fine," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Honestly. I just—I'm not really a try-things-on-in-front-of-people person."

Priya shrugs it off with characteristic ease. "Fair enough. More clothes for Janelle's actual closet then." She hangs the burgundy dress back on the rod and reaches for the next item. "Okay, what's this mystery dry-cleaning bag?"

The moment passes. Wren picks up her camera again. The sorting resumes. But Janelle catches your eye as you turn back to the pile, and she gives you a tiny nod—I see you, and I'm not going to push—that makes your chest ache with something you can't quite name.

She noticed. She always notices.

From downstairs, Colette's voice floats up: "Girls! Banana bread is ready if anyone wants a slice!"