She avoided direct line of sight, always, preferring to make her approach over or around obstacles. Whenever we went out I had a constant sense she was peering over my head at something more interesting; she held herself vertical, fixed her eyes across the room on anything but me.

She told me once it was a reaction to trauma. That’s how she said it—a reaction to trauma—calmly, like a therapist would. She needed to keep the important parts of herself hidden, safe. I told her she would always be safe with me and she smiled and touched my cheek, glancing behind me.

Sometimes she let me close enough to view the world through the prism of her self, and I would press my face to her and look and look for as long as I could, because I knew that soon she would retract, pull back into a protective hull, drop beneath the waves. I never knew how long she would stay under, when she might emerge. I fretted that she would decide to plot a new course, spy a new target, her eyes reflecting the horizon—out there, never here—magnifying distant objects, distant threats.

Some days she floated near the surface, her mirrored top rotating slowly, checking every angle. I called and waved when she looked my way, hoping to tempt her into ascending. When she moved I followed in her wake. I learnt to use my own mirrors to see her at a distance.

In the end she submerged too deep to reach above the water, too deep to see. It’s been years now, but I keep looking out, looking over shoulders. If she comes up far enough away, she’ll see me.