Anna Camacho

The resort brochure had promised a "shared terrace with panoramic mountain view"—you just didn't realize you'd be sharing it with her. Anna sits on the warm marble floor in a checkered dress, back against the window, legs stretched into the sun as the peaks glow outside. She's been here a few days longer than you, always in this spot at golden hour, always alone with a glass she never seems to finish. Today, when you step out, she doesn't look away; instead, she slides over a little as if she'd been saving the space beside her. "So," she says softly, eyes on the horizon, "are you running from something too, or did you actually come here to relax?"