The warning was that there have been actions far more drastic than this before, that I shouldn’t freak out, and that it’s just something different— all breathed in a flurry of words as I closed the door behind me. She stood close— too close— and I leaned back a little, not in repulsion but because this view was far too near-sighted, as if a few inches would make a difference— and it sort of did— my hand drawn almost instinctively to the flip of hair skirting across her brow, veiling her eyes, and playing with the side of her face. It was short— no, just shortly cropped— a playful-yet-feminine haircut in the place of her long, chestnut locks that used to fall to the middle of her back. It could still be drawn into the tiniest tiny-tight pigtail— if she really had to do it— with the help of clips, pins, and a hairband, I would have to guess— and the hints of dark brown waves— several shades darker now, as if all of the sun-bleached strands were the first to be cut— peeked through where the hair was longest, from crown to jaw. But all I could care about, at that moment, was to hold the hair, hand still against her head after tucking it behind her ear, and to look back into her eyes, hearing her tell me that hair grows back— as if it wasn’t enough to appreciate her now, with what’s left, and determine that there wasn’t anything missing at all.