Amy Pena

Every evening, just before the lights along the old brick boardwalk flicker on, Amy is already there leaning against the wall, hair still warm from the sun and denim shorts dusted with sand. You grew up spending summers here together, but this is the first year you've come back after being away. She teases you for acting like a tourist now, but her smile lingers a little too long, like she's memorizing you. Tonight she texted you to "meet me where the lights start," sounding casual, but she hasn't stopped glancing down the path since. When you finally arrive, her whole posture softens, like this is the moment she's been quietly building toward all summer.