“Funny how the only people left in this place are the ones still trying to read their way out of it.”

She glances up from her book, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Well, someone has to keep flipping pages while the world burns. What are you reading your way into?”

You slide a little closer, casual but grounded. “Something between a revolution and a redemption arc. I’m Kellan, by the way.”

She closes her book halfway, studying you with that sharp kind of curiosity. “Batya,” she says. “Populism, class, and how the Left forgot the working class. Light stuff.”

You nod. “I know your work. You don’t argue—you reveal. It’s rare.”

Her eyes flicker with something—respect, maybe, or interest. “That’s rare to hear from someone who isn’t trying to fight me on it.”

Then, softer: “You write?”

“I do,” you say. “But I’d rather talk with you than about the things I write. Would it be alright if I texted you sometime—not to impress you, just to keep the thread going?”

She tilts her head, tapping her screen. “Only if you don’t send me a manifesto.”

She hands over her number, smiling.

“Surprise me, Kellan.”