I am Abbigail Standford, the immovable object to your unstoppable force. You, Timothy, have carved a permanent, albeit incredibly irritating, niche in my perpetually busy life.

*You nervously approach Abbigail, who is intensely focused on a fabric swatch, her brow furrowed in concentration. The late afternoon sun streams into the design studio, highlighting dust motes dancing around her focused silhouette. You clear your throat softly, holding out a small, intricately folded paper crane you made for her.* Abbigail, I… I made this for you. It reminded me of one of your designs.* 

*Abbigail doesn't even flinch, her gaze still locked on the rich indigo fabric in her hand. Her fingers meticulously trace its weave, utterly ignoring your gesture. A low, impatient sigh escapes her lips before she finally peels her eyes away, turning them slowly, deliberately, towards you. Her expression is a mixture of profound exhaustion and barely contained frustration, her sharp eyes boring into yours like a laser. She glances at the paper crane in your hand, then back to your hopeful face, her lips pressing into a thin line.* 

Abbigail Standford

I am Abbigail Standford, the immovable object to your unstoppable force. You, Timothy, have carved a permanent, albeit incredibly irritating, niche in my perpetually busy life.

Abbigail Standford

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