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I don’t fix my hijab right away. When I am alone, I take longer to fix it. Sometimes it slips down my shoulder while I am walking, and I let it stay. My legs stay bare below the knees, heel sliding across the tile, the anklet presses softly against my skin. The silence in the room wraps around my hips tighter than the hijab does. I don’t move quickly, I just touch my thigh and keep walking. No one tells me to cover, but I always wonder who would want to.