Between the Lines

Chapter 6

"There's nothing going on, Sof, believe me."

Sofia doesn't believe me.

She's sitting cross-legged on my bed, scrolling through her phone, pretending not to watch me pace the room while I pin fabric swatches to my board. She's been quiet for too long, which is always suspicious.

"There's nothing happening," I say again, sharper this time. "We're friends. That's it."

She finally looks up. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

She smiles, slow and knowing. "Okay. Then let me rephrase. He's only a friend?"

"Yes," I say immediately. Too quickly. "He's your friend. He's around because of you, not because of me. You are inviting him here every time."

Sofia tilts her head. "Interesting. Because he doesn't ask me about my day. He asks about you."

"That's because—" I stop. I don't actually know why.

She shrugs. "Relax. I'm not saying it's a thing. I'm just saying... something shifted."

"Nothing shifted," I insist, turning back to my board. "I'm busy."

She studies me for another second, then lets it go. "Fine. Busy girl with a launch in two months."

That part is true.

Two months. Eight weeks. Fifty-six days until my first collection goes live.

The pressure sits in my chest like a clock that won't stop ticking. No time to waste.

*

Isaac comes over that evening, unannounced but unsurprising. He's been doing that lately, dropping by with something for Sofia, staying longer than necessary, sitting quietly while I work at the dining table.

Today, he doesn't even pretend he's here for her.

"What are you working on?" he asks, standing behind my chair.

I don't look up. "Collection planning."

"Can I see?"

I hesitate. Not because it's a secret, but because it's mine.

Still, I slide a sketch toward him.

He doesn't react immediately. No praise. No criticism. He studies it, slow and focused, like he's trying to understand the logic behind it instead of judging the result.

"What's the idea?" he asks.

"Versatility," I say. "Pieces that work together. Neutral, clean. Things women can build on."

He nods. "And who's the woman?"

I blink. "What?"

"The woman you're designing for," he says. "Not theoretically. Realistically."

I frown. "Independent. Creative. Someone who wants clothes that don't wear her."

"That's vague," he says calmly.

I feel irritation spark. "It's intentional."

"I'm sure," he says. "But intention and clarity aren't the same thing."

I finally look at him. "Are you criticizing my work?"

"No," he says. "I'm asking about it."

That somehow makes it worse.

"I didn't ask for feedback," I say.

"I know."

He sets the sketch down and leans against the table. "But you didn't say no either."