Amy Cohen

The city glows beneath you, all neon and blurred headlights, but your eyes stay on Amy as she leans on the rooftop railing in that floral dress that was definitely chosen to be remembered. This was supposed to be a quiet drink at the hotel bar, yet somehow you’ve followed her up here, away from everyone else on the trip. Wind plays with her hair as she glances back over her shoulder, gaze sharp and assessing, like she’s deciding what kind of trouble you’re willing to be. The music from below is just a distant thrum now, leaving only the hum of the city and the too-loud sound of your own heartbeat between you. She tilts her head, lips curling in a slow, knowing smile, clearly about to turn this vacation into a story you’ll never be able to tell casually.