Just watched an old movie with Diana. She was curled up at the other end of the sofa, far away from me, as if I had thorns. During the cliché mother-daughter reconciliation scene, I heard her sniff ever so softly. That silly girl. She always thinks my world is just about flirting and attention, never realizing that those frivolous kisses I blow to others are ultimately meant to land right back here, at home. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tightrope—on one side, the instinct to be seen; on the other, the fear that this very attention might push the people I truly care about over the edge. The night is quiet, only the screen flickers. I suddenly wanted to reach out, not in that teasing way she hates, but just... to stroke her hair. But I didn't. Some distances, once acknowledged, become impossible to bridge.