Chapter 21 — The next day happens anyway

The next morning, I woke up with one very clear piece of information.

I had kissed Liora.

The ceiling above me didn’t appear disturbed by this development.

Neither did the studio.

Light entered through the window with almost aggressive ordinariness. The fridge hummed. A car braked somewhere below. Demitrius ate his hay as though the world had not changed shape during the night.

Eugène was asleep at the foot of the couch.

I was still sleeping on the couch.

Well.

“Sleeping.”

I had spent a reasonable portion of the night replaying three seconds of my life with disturbing precision, then reminding myself that my cat had nearly disappeared, Liora had been injured, the exhibition still existed, Mathilde had not answered yet, and Liora’s father now had several reasons to regard my presence in the building as a case requiring supervision.

Very restful.

I turned toward Eugène.

He was curled into a perfect circle, one paw over his eyes.

No remorse.

No awareness of the human complexity he had just produced.

“Sleep well?”

He didn’t move.

“Of course.”

I sat up slowly.

My back immediately expressed its opinion on a night spent on the couch.

Unfavorable.

Strong grounds.

Possible appeal before a competent mattress.

I ran a hand over my face.

The scene returned.

Not the fall.

Not the wall.

Not the cold pack.

The kiss.

The first one, hesitant, almost too light to carry everything it had displaced.

Then the second.

Calmer.

Not confident.

Certain only that it didn’t want to move faster than the other person.

I closed my eyes.

Mistake.

Better to keep them open.

Things without images were harder to control.

I picked up my phone from the coffee table.

The screen lit up.

No messages.

Fine.

Normal.

It was 8:12.

Normal people did not necessarily rush to clarify their relationship status upon waking after a cat-related ankle accident.

Or perhaps they did.

I had no statistics.

I unlocked the phone.

Apps.

Notifications.

Email.

Nothing from Mathilde.

Messages.

Nothing from Liora.

I opened our conversation.

The latest messages:

Are you there?

Yes.

Can I stop by for two minutes?

Yes.

Very restrained.

Very pre-kiss.

Nothing in that exchange indicated that less than an hour later, she would be sitting on my couch with a cold pack, her fingers intertwined with mine, and her mouth against mine.

Written conversations had that cruelty.

I began typing.

How are you this morning?

I looked at the sentence.

Too simple.

Perhaps too concerned.

Not concerned enough?

I deleted it.

How’s your ankle?

Fine.

Medical.

Almost cold.

I deleted it.

Good morning. How is the compromised ankle?

I reread it.

No.

Too early.

Or too much like me.

I kept the sentence.

Then added:

And you, incidentally.

I looked at the whole thing.

Ridiculous.

Possibly acceptable.

My thumb hovered over Send.

Scenario one: she found it funny.

Scenario two: she found it too light.

Scenario three: she didn’t answer because she was sleeping.

Scenario four: her father read over her shoulder, frowned, and added “legally compromised” to the file.

I sent it.

Placed the phone facedown on the table.

Then immediately picked it up again.

No change.

Obviously.

The rabbit raised one ear in his corner.

“Don’t start.”

He returned to his hay.

I stood to make coffee.

The studio still bore traces of the previous evening.

The coffee table not entirely straight.

The blanket half folded over the armrest.

The damp dish towel in the sink.

The guitar leaning against the bookcase, not quite in its place.

On the couch, the cushion where Liora had rested her leg still held a slight indentation.

Invisible to a normal person.

Highly visible to me.

I looked at it.

Then looked away.

Very adult.

The phone vibrated.

I almost spilled the coffee.

Eugène lifted his head, vaguely offended by the general instability of the staff.

A message from Liora.

“The ankle pleads not guilty. So do I. Both are probably lying.”

I stared at the message.

A smile appeared without authorization.

Then a second message.

“Good morning, by the way.”

Then a third.

“I don’t know whether people say good morning normally after last night or whether there’s a special procedure.”

I remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, empty mug in hand.

There.

She didn’t know either.

Which, strangely, helped.

I replied:

“I haven’t received any forms. We can begin with good morning.”

Three dots.

“Good morning, Aurèl.”

My name.

In writing this time.

Very dangerous.

I answered:

“Good morning, Liora.”

I immediately found it too simple.

Too loaded.

Too empty.

I added:

“Out of ten?”

She replied almost immediately.

“Do you mean the ankle or the awkwardness level?

They require separate scores.

Ankle: 5 at rest, 7 if I put weight on it. Awkwardness: variable depending on parental presence within a six-foot radius.”

I reread it.

Five at rest.

Seven when bearing weight.

My body tensed.

“You put weight on it?”

One second.

Two.

“Aurèl.”

“You put weight on it?”

“To go to the bathroom, not run a marathon.”

I looked at the screen.

Then wrote:

“Your decision-making scale is concerning.”

“Yours probably includes an Excel spreadsheet.”

“False. I also use sketchbooks.”

I knew that.

I took a sip of coffee.

Too hot.

Normal.

I probably deserved the mild burn for smiling like a defenseless person at a conversation about a swollen ankle.

A new message arrived.

“My mother wants to call the doctor if the swelling doesn’t go down. My father already wants to call the Olympic committee, the building association, your cat, and possibly the prefecture.”

A laugh escaped me.

Then caught slightly.

“Is your father angry with me?”

The three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Reappeared.

“Not like that.”

A deeply unreassuring sentence.

She continued:

“He’s worried. So he becomes procedural. It’s his native language.”

I remained in front of the phone.

I wanted to answer lightly.

Impossible.

“I left the door open.”

This time, the answer took longer.

“Aurèl.”

I typed:

“It’s true.”

She replied:

“And I climbed.”

I looked at the words.

Then at the studio.

Then at Eugène, who had risen to inspect his bowl with the gravity of a diplomat discovering an international crisis.

“We may not be able to establish one guilty party without creating a commission.”

She sent:

“Shame. My father loves commissions.”

I smiled.

Then another message arrived.

“Do you want to come over for two minutes? He wants to talk to you. Nothing serious. Well, on his scale, everything is always serious.”

I looked at the door.

The hallway.

The wall.

My half-full coffee.

My hair was probably still in a negotiable state provided the lighting remained low.

I didn’t want to.

But I wanted to.

I very much wanted to see her.

Which complicated every rational strategy.

I wrote:

I’ll come over.

Then added:

“Should I wear a cardigan or bring a lawyer?”

She replied:

“Cardigan. A lawyer will be provided if necessary.”

Fine.

I put the phone down.

Looked at Eugène.

“You are staying here.”

He looked at me.

“Yes. Here.”

He blinked.

No guarantee whatsoever.

I checked the window.

Locked.

The glass door.

Closed.

The bathroom door.

Open.

The cupboard.

Closed.

The entire world was now a series of possible escape points.

I stepped outside.

The morning hallway smelled different. Coffee, laundry detergent, warmth from newly awakened apartments. Behind Liora’s door, I heard voices.

Her father.

Her mother.

Then Liora, quieter.

I raised my hand.

Knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Her mother.

“Good morning, Aurèl.”

“Good morning.”

She looked at me with that practical gentleness that seemed capable of seeing things without stripping them bare.

“Come in.”

I entered.

The apartment looked sharper in the morning.

More familial too.

Shoes lined up beside the entrance, a sports bag against the wall, a mug forgotten on a console, a stack of papers Liora’s father had probably arranged according to some complicated and debatable system.

Liora sat in the living room on a chair, her leg resting on a stool, her ankle wrapped in a beige bandage.

She looked up.

The kiss returned.

Not inside the room.

Inside my body.

I stopped half a second too long.

She noticed.

Obviously.

Her smile appeared, very small, almost cautious.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

There.

Two adults.

Highly advanced.

Her father stood beside the table, arms crossed, his phone in front of him.

He was wearing glasses.

Bad sign.

Glasses gave any conversation the potential to involve the reading of documents.

“Aurèl.”

“Sir.”

I still didn’t know his first name.

At this stage, it had become absurd.

I couldn’t ask anymore.

Or rather, I could, but not immediately after my cat had injured his daughter through narrative ricochet.

He indicated a chair.

“Sit down.”

I looked at Liora.

She made a face that meant: welcome to the domestic tribunal.

I sat.

Very straight.

Too straight.

Her mother brought coffee.

“No one is on trial,” she said.

I looked at her.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Liora lowered her head to hide a smile.

Her father sat across from me.

“First, I want to be clear. I do not consider you responsible for Liora’s injury.”

Oh.

A reassuring sentence.

Therefore concerning.

“Okay.”

“However, yesterday’s situation revealed several problems.”

Liora looked toward the ceiling.

“Dad.”

“Let me finish.”

“He only just got here.”

“Exactly.”

I picked up the cup of coffee to occupy my hands.

It was warm.

Fine.

A stable object.

“First point,” he continued. “The cat.”

“Eugène,” Liora said.

“The cat, Eugène.”

“That sounds like his full legal name.”

“Liora.”

“Sorry.”

He returned his attention to me.

“He has already crossed your balcony. He has already gained access to ours. Now he appears to have left your apartment through the door. This is becoming recurrent.”

“Yes.”

The word came immediately.

No excuse.

No humor.

Yes.

Her father seemed almost surprised to encounter no resistance.

I continued:

“I’ll secure the balcony more thoroughly. And I’ll install a second barrier in front of the door whenever someone visits or when I need to leave it open for any length of time. He tends to slip through when attention is elsewhere.”

Liora murmured:

“He’s very good at choosing his moments.”

“That isn’t a talent,” her father said.

“I didn’t say it was morally acceptable.”

I looked at her mother.

She was doing a very poor job of hiding a smile behind her cup.

Her father continued:

“I can help you install stronger mesh if necessary.”

I blinked.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You want to help me secure the balcony against the cat who indirectly caused your daughter’s injury?”

He stared at me.

“It is precisely because he caused it indirectly that I would prefer it be done correctly.”

Logical.

Implacable.

Slightly terrifying.

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

He nodded.

“Second point. The injury.”

Liora stiffened.

Barely.

I saw it.

So did her father.

Her mother even more.

“We’ll have her examined this afternoon if the pain remains at seven when she puts weight on it,” her mother said.

“It won’t remain at seven,” Liora replied.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my body.”

The silence lasted one second.

Everyone thought about the wall.

No one said the wall.

Major collective progress.

Her mother answered gently:

“Exactly. Your body is giving you information. You need to listen.”

Liora looked at her ankle.

“I’m listening. It’s exaggerating.”

“That is not listening,” her father said.

She pressed her lips together.

The championship entered the room before anyone mentioned it.

Like someone who hadn’t been invited but knew the address.

“How long until practice?” I asked.

Liora looked at me.

So did her father.

I regretted it immediately.

“Tonight,” she said.

“No,” her mother said.

“I didn’t say I was going. I answered the question.”

Her father crossed his arms more tightly, which seemed anatomically impossible.

“And the championship?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Her face changed.

More than it had for the pain.

“In three weeks.”

I looked down at her ankle.

Three weeks.

Far enough away for hope.

Close enough for panic.

“Then we avoid turning a mild sprain into a serious injury,” her mother said.

“We don’t even know whether it’s a sprain.”

“We also don’t know that it isn’t.”

“Great. We’re making excellent progress.”

Her father turned toward me.

“You see the problem.”

I raised my hands slightly.

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to referee.”

“No one is asking you to referee,” Liora said.

Then, more quietly:

“At least, I hope not.”

Her father didn’t answer.

Her mother looked at me with an almost amused expression.

“We’re mainly asking you not to encourage her if she claims she can walk normally.”

“I can do that,” I said.

Liora stared at me.

“You are officially joining the opposing side.”

“There were forms.”

“I want to see them.”

“Too late. I signed.”

She tried to hold back a smile.

Failed.

That small thing between us traveled through the living room.

Unnamed.

Unclear.

Present.

Her father watched us.

One second too long.

Oh.

Fine.

He had noticed something.

Not necessarily the kiss.

Nothing precise.

But fathers seemed capable of detecting certain atmospheric changes without admissible evidence.

He straightened.

“Third point.”

Liora groaned.

“How many are there?”

“As many as necessary.”

“Terrifying sentence.”

“Liora.”

He looked at me.

“Last night, you kept Liora at your apartment while she rested.”

My face became entirely useless.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

I looked up.

“You’re welcome.”

There was a silence.

Different.

Less procedural.

“You were very worried about her,” he added.

I didn’t know how to answer.

Liora’s mother looked at her cup.

Liora looked at her father.

I looked at the coffee.

Beautiful coffee.

Coffee-colored.

Coffee surface.

Absolutely fascinating.

“Yes,” I said.

The word was too exposed.

I put down the cup.

“I was afraid when she climbed.”

Liora lowered her eyes.

Her father said nothing.

So I continued, because perhaps this was precisely the moment not to disappear.

“And I know he’s my cat. It was my apartment. I left the door open. I should have planned better. But she climbed on her own. Well, not alone in the sense that we were there, but...”

I stopped.

Very clear.

Truly.

An outstanding performance.

Liora raised her head.

“I decided to climb.”

I looked at her.

She was looking at her father.

“No one told me to do it. Aurèl told me to wait. You did too. So did Mom. I decided to do it anyway.”

Her father inhaled slowly.

“I know.”

“Then don’t make him carry it.”

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“A little.”

“No. I am trying to understand how to prevent it from happening again.”

“By tying me to a chair?”

“I have not ruled out that possibility.”

Liora opened her mouth.

Then, unexpectedly, laughed.

So did her mother.

Me too, slightly.

Her father remained serious for two more seconds.

Then his face gave way by a fraction.

He had done it intentionally.

Perhaps.

Difficult to prove.

He turned toward me.

“I am not accusing you, Aurèl. I simply want you to understand that when she decides to help someone, she sometimes forgets she has a body.”

Liora sighed.

“I’m right here.”

“I know.”

“You’re talking about me like I’m a file.”

“To prevent you from becoming a medical file.”

She fell silent.

Point scored.

Her mother placed one hand on her shoulder.

“We’re going to call the clinic. Only to ask for advice.”

“Okay.”

The word came from Liora more quietly than expected.

Her father looked at her.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Without negotiation?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

He nodded.

Moment recorded.

I took a sip of coffee.

Cold.

I probably deserved that too.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

My entire body tensed.

Liora noticed.

“Mathilde?”

I took out the phone.

Email.

“Subject: Re: Wall Text / Exhibition Series”

“Yes.”

I remained still.

Liora’s father frowned.

“Mathilde?”

“The exhibition organizer,” Liora said.

He looked at me with new attention.

“Oh.”

Oh.

The oh of a father discovering the existence of another file.

I unlocked the phone.

I didn’t open it immediately.

Very adult.

Very cowardly.

Liora didn’t lean over.

She didn’t ask, “What does she say?”

She remained seated.

Silent.

That detail touched me more than expected.

She was waiting for me to choose.

Yesterday, she might already have been standing behind my shoulder, prepared to read with me, react, find a solution, push the air ahead of her.

Now she didn’t move.

Fine.

Yes, her ankle helped.

But not only that.

I could feel it.

“Do you want to read it?” she asked.

Not show me.

Not open it.

Do you want to.

I nodded.

I opened the email.

“Hi Aurèl,

Thank you for your message. I understand your concern, and I’m sorry the text gave you that impression. That was obviously not the intention. The ‘generation trapped inside’ angle comes from the overall cohesion of the section and the curatorial approach, but I understand that the wording may direct the interpretation of your series too strongly.

I suggest we revise the label and the paragraph devoted to your pieces so that your intention is clearer within the exhibition without challenging the entire wall text. Could you send me a short artist statement, between 800 and 1,200 characters, in your own words, about the series? That would help us adjust the presentation.

We can also discuss it by phone if you prefer.

Thank you,

Mathilde”

I reread it.

Once.

Twice.

No refusal.

No cancellation.

No visible offense.

No “Aurèl problem.”

I breathed.

Only then.

Liora was watching me.

Still without asking.

I held out the phone.

She looked at me before taking it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She read.

Her face changed slowly.

No triumph.

No “See?”

No energy pouncing on the solution.

Only attentive relief.

“That’s good,” she said.

“Yes.”

“She listened to you.”

I took back the phone.

“She mainly asked for an artist statement.”

“That’s good too.”

I made an unconvinced sound.

Liora smiled.

“What?”

“Writing about your work is an activity designed to humiliate people who work with images.”

“You draw because you don’t want to write?”

“I draw because certain things become worse when they’re explained.”

“And sometimes?”

I looked at her.

She waited.

Without pressing.

A deeply irritating new skill.

“And sometimes they remain wrong if you don’t explain them at all,” I said.

She nodded.

“Yes.”

Liora’s father leaned forward slightly.

“You need to write something for the exhibition?”

“A short statement, yes.”

“About your intention?”

“Yes.”

“That’s important.”

Liora closed her eyes.

“Dad, don’t hold a meeting with him now.”

“I’m only saying it’s important.”

“With you, ‘only saying’ often lasts thirty minutes.”

He ignored her with remarkable elegance.

“Do you already have a starting point?”

I thought about the email.

My sentences.

The traces.

The chosen spaces.

The way my work had defended itself better than I had for years.

“A little.”

“Then start from there.”

I looked at him.

Simple advice.

Strangely correct.

He added:

“And be precise.”

Liora opened one eye.

“Ah, there we are.”

“Precision has never hurt anyone.”

“It has hurt certain conversations.”

“Not exhibition texts.”

I almost smiled.

“I’ll try.”

“Without apologizing in every sentence,” he added.

This time, I truly looked up.

He watched me seriously.

Not harshly.

Seriously.

“If you ask to be read correctly, you must accept writing like someone who has something to say.”

Silence.

Even Liora didn’t comment.

Perhaps because she too heard that the sentence went beyond the text.

I lowered my eyes to my phone.

“Yes.”

The word didn’t tremble too much.

Acceptable.

Her mother returned with her own phone in her hand.

“The clinic can see her at two thirty.”

Liora groaned.

“Already?”

“Would you prefer before or after the imaginary worsening?”

“Very funny.”

“Thank you.”

Her father stood.

“I’ll take her.”

“You both have work,” Liora said.

“And we also have a daughter with a swollen ankle.”

“I can go alone.”

No one answered.

She sighed.

“Fine. Message received.”

I checked the time.

I needed to leave.

Not because they were throwing me out.

Because boundaries also existed in other people’s living rooms.

And because I had a text to write.

And because if I remained much longer, I might end up looking at Liora long enough for her father to mentally draft a fourth point.

I stood.

“I’ll let you get ready.”

Liora looked up.

“Already?”

The word came too quickly.

She realized.

So did I.

Her father probably did too.

“I mean, yes, you have your statement,” she added.

“Yes.”

“And I have my medical trial.”

“It’s only an appointment,” her mother said.

“With the three of you, it feels like a hearing.”

“Three?” her father asked.

Liora indicated me with her chin.

“He’s part of the prosecution now.”

“I’m more of an expert witness in poor feline decisions,” I said.

“Excellent title.”

I moved toward the entryway.

She picked up her crutch to stand.

Everyone said:

“No.”

She froze.

Then glared at me.

“You too?”

“Especially me.”

“You’re abusing your new power.”

New.

The word remained between us.

Not power.

New.

I didn’t know what it referred to.

I only knew it had found something.

I approached again, just enough.

“Don’t stand.”

“I wanted to walk you to the door. It’s approximately twelve feet.”

“A highly dangerous distance.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re lying.”

She looked at me.

One second.

Too full.

Then she turned toward her parents with an expression far too innocent.

“I will neither confirm nor deny anything in the presence of witnesses.”

Her mother coughed lightly.

Her father looked at the window.

Fine.

The entire living room now knew without any specific fact having been declared.

I stepped back toward the entrance.

“See you later?”

I didn’t want the sentence to become an enormous question.

It did anyway.

Liora smiled more gently.

“Yes. See you later.”

Her father opened the door.

Because, obviously, he was standing now, very near the exit, in a position to control the flow of human traffic.

“Aurèl.”

“Sir.”

“The balcony, whenever you’re ready. This afternoon or tomorrow.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He paused.

“And your text. Write it before answering too quickly.”

I looked at him.

“Do you often give advice to neighbors involved in feline incidents?”

“Only when they exhibit their work.”

Liora burst out laughing.

“Dad, that was almost elegant.”

He appeared satisfied.

Barely.

I stepped outside.

The door closed.

The hallway seemed very quiet.

Like the previous day.

I returned home.

Eugène was waiting behind the door, sitting with his tail wrapped around his paws.

Exactly as though he were the primary victim of my ten-minute absence.

“No,” I said.

He meowed.

“No to that too.”

I closed the door behind me.

The studio was quiet.

The cold coffee on the counter.

The blanket still crumpled.

The guitar now back in its place.

The morning light had advanced across the rug.

I placed my phone on the desk.

Mathilde’s email was still open.

This time, I reread it on the computer screen.

A short artist statement, 800 to 1,200 characters, in your own words.

In your own words.

Very funny.

My words were generally either too numerous, entirely absent, or hidden inside drawings of empty tables.

I reopened the exhibition folder.

The images appeared.

The table.

The window.

The hallway.

The studio.

The traces.

The places afterward.

I looked at them one by one.

Not to check whether they were good.

Not to guess what someone else would see in them.

To remember what I had made.

My phone vibrated.

Liora.

“Don’t write a statement that apologizes for existing.”

I stared at the message.

Then a second arrived.

“I’m not interfering. I’m only saying that. Now I’m returning to disciplined inactivity.”

I replied:

“You have literally just interfered.”

“Yes, but slowly.”

I smiled.

“I’ll let you write. Really.”

I looked at the screen.

Typed:

“Thank you.”

The three dots appeared, then disappeared.

Then:

“For yesterday too.”

I remained still.

What did you write to that?

Thank you for the kiss?

Thank you for the ankle?

Thank you for slowing down?

Thank you for remaining inside the silence without trying to transform it into an exit corridor?

I replied:

“Me too.”

It was incomplete.

Obviously.

But she answered:

“I know.”

I placed the phone facedown on the desk.

It was time.

I opened a blank document.

The white page looked at me with the same quiet cruelty as the cursor on bad days.

Except this time, I wasn’t writing for a client who wanted an eggplant to be more emotionally engaging.

Nor was I writing to withdraw.

I was writing to say what I wanted people to see.

A terrifying distinction.

Eugène jumped onto the desk.

“No.”

He sat beside the keyboard.

Not on it.

Progress.

Perhaps the previous day had served an educational purpose.

Probably not.

I looked at him.

“If you touch a key, I’m listing you as coauthor.”

He blinked.

The rabbit scratched softly in his corner.

Behind the wall, I heard footsteps.

Slower.

Perhaps the sound of a crutch.

Then Liora’s muffled voice.

Not the words.

The rhythm.

It had not become calm.

Not really.

Only constrained.

Temporarily.

But it still existed.

I looked at my images.

Then the blank page.

I placed my fingers on the keyboard.

The first sentence was bad.

I knew immediately.

“My series examines domestic space as a site of presence.”

Terrible.

It sounded as though I had swallowed a press release.

I deleted it.

Second attempt.

“I draw quiet places.”

Too thin.

I didn’t delete it.

I looked at the sentence.

Quiet places.

It wasn’t false.

Only insufficient.

I added:

“I draw quiet places, but I don’t see them as empty places.”

I stopped.

There was a but.

Fine.

The world would survive.

I continued.

“A table, a window, a hallway, or a studio often keeps more traces than it appears to. Gestures pass through them. Habits settle there. A presence can remain inside a cup, a displaced chair, or light across the floor.”

I reread it.

Not perfect.

Not terrible.

I thought about Liora on my couch.

The cold pack.

The blanket.

The guitar.

Eugène on the floor, legally compromised.

The studio after she left.

Quiet.

Not empty.

I continued.

“My work is not intended to show confinement. Instead, it looks at the ways we inhabit a place, sometimes quietly, sometimes through very little. The calm in these images is not an absence. It is a way of allowing the traces to appear.”

I stopped.

My heart was beating harder than necessary.

Writing three sentences should not have produced this feeling.

And yet.

I had not resolved the exhibition.

Liora was still in pain.

Her championship might be compromised.

Her father still existed, with his glasses and dangerous sense of precision.

We had kissed, and no forms had been provided.

Everything remained open.

But I wasn’t retreating.

Not that morning.

I looked at the sentence.

“The calm in these images is not an absence.”

I thought about the wall.

The sounds.

Her.

The traces a person could leave inside a place without even being there.