with my eyes closed
-
"I heard he got you a new Benz
With the white wheels, when will he learn
That you like to tandem bike?
And I hate that"
MARA
Hebrew | "bitter," "bitterness," or "strength"
❀
SLOANE
Gaelic | "raider," "warrior," or "expedition"
❀
STILLWELL
English | "tranquil spring or stream"
.
.
. -
The story of Mara
Long before anyone noticed the name Mara Sloane Stillwell, she was already listening. Not to words, exactly—anyone could hear words—but to the spaces between them. The pauses that lingered too long. The way someone’s hand twitched when they thought no one was watching. The quiet flickers of thought that people tried desperately to hide.
She grew up in the kind of homes you forget exist. Streets that smelled of exhaust and rain. Apartments that carried the echo of previous tenants. Rooms with peeling wallpaper and the hum of a refrigerator that never shut off. People came and went around her, oblivious to the girl who noticed everything. And Mara noticed everything.
By the time she was fifteen, she could predict a conversation before it finished. She knew which friends would argue, which would fold, which would lie without meaning to. She could sense the subtle shifts in tone that betrayed someone’s intent, the tiny gestures that gave away fear, irritation, or longing. She didn’t ask for this gift. She didn’t choose it. It was always on. Silence wasn’t empty; it was deafening.
And that was the burden. Because knowing too much made connection complicated. She saw what no one else did—and sometimes, she saw too much. A glance that meant more than it should. A smile hiding resentment. A pause that carried disappointment. She learned to pull back before she was drawn in. She learned to distance herself before she could be hurt, and yet, somehow, she always wanted to lean closer anyway.
By eighteen, Mara had become someone people felt before they understood her. In classrooms, in cafes, in quiet corners of city streets, she moved without needing to announce herself. People trusted her without realizing why. They confided in her, seeking understanding she didn’t fully intend to give. And she listened. Always. Absorbing what others couldn’t say, and filing it away. Not for manipulation. Not for control. But because she couldn’t stop herself.
Mara Sloane Stillwell existed like a question people couldn’t answer. She was present without intrusion. Quiet without absence. People remembered her for what they felt sitting across from her, not what they saw. By morning, she was gone, leaving the faint echo of someone who had seen everything about them—and still kept her own truths carefully hidden.
Because Mara had learned something early, and painfully: the world doesn’t just notice those who move loudly. It notices those who notice everything.
"I could love you with
my eyes closed kiss you
with a blindfold
Figure you out"
