That night, Aurélie did not sleep. She lay in her narrow bed, the Walkman’s headphones over her ears, the cassette having long since ended. The silence between songs was the same as the hyphen inside her. But for the first time, she listened to it differently. She heard not an absence, but a pause. A breath. A hinge.
She unbuttoned the cardigan. She put on a black t-shirt she’d bought at the flea market, one that fit. She looked at herself again. The hyphen was still there. But now, it was not a barrier. It was a bridge. Les 14 Ans D--Aurelie -1983-
She walked to school. She did not sit behind the gymnasium. She walked into the cantine. She sat down at a table where a quiet boy named Philippe read science fiction novels and never spoke to anyone. He looked up. He did not smile. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. That night, Aurélie did not sleep