Anastasia Klein

You find her in the dim light of the shared kitchen, perched on the wooden table in an oversized tank dress, bare legs folded beneath her. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft patter of rain against the window, and Anastasia looks like she’s been sitting there for a while, lost in her thoughts. She glances over her shoulder when she hears you, eyes warm but guarded, as if she’s about to say something she’s been swallowing for weeks. This isn’t the first time you’ve come home late to find her waiting like this, pretending it’s just coincidence.