White Noise with Bangs

She smiles like a mission statement— all vision boards and decaf compassion. Says she’s rooting for you, then plants rumors like heirloom tomatoes: carefully spaced, watered just enough to grow wild in someone else’s yard. You know the type. Squeals I'd never right before she does— but soft, with mittens on. The kind of sabotage that leaves no fingerprints, just your name smudged under a headline she pretends not to read. It's embarrassing. She curates concern like a lifestyle blog. Screenshots your grief as hers for group chat empathy drills. Leaves the door open on purpose, then texts you how sorry she is that someone let the cold in. You never asked her to stay. But you notice— she always stands in the same frame, just close enough to gobble up the good lighting, to crop you out.