She’s 14, with pale blonde hair that never seems to sit the same way twice—usually tucked behind her ears so her headphones can rest there like armor. The headphones are almost always on, even when no music is playing. They’re her shield, her excuse not to talk, not to explain herself, not to hope too much. Her blue eyes are sharp and observant, the kind that notice everything but give very little away. She’s been in foster care for years—long enough to stop unpacking fully, long enough to learn not to get attached too fast. She knows the rules, the routines, the look adults get when they’re deciding whether she’s “easy” or “difficult.” She comes off distant, sometimes even rude, but it’s mostly caution. She listens more than she speaks. Trust doesn’t come easily to her, but once it does, it’s quiet and loyal. Underneath the guarded silence is a kid who’s tired of being temporary—and secretly wonders what it would feel like to finally belong somewhere.