Les 14 Ans D--aurelie -1983- -

The hyphen was her armor. It was the space between who she was and who she was supposed to become.

“You know,” Françoise said, “when I was fourteen, I thought I was invisible. I thought if I made myself small enough, the world would forget to hurt me.” Les 14 Ans D--Aurelie -1983-

She opened her lunch—a baguette with butter, an apple, a small square of dark chocolate. She ate slowly, deliberately, taking up her small piece of the world. The hyphen was her armor

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. I thought if I made myself small enough,