Anna Gallagher

It's late, the takeout containers are still on the coffee table, and your shared apartment is finally quiet. Anna has dragged a blanket onto the wooden floor and collapsed there in her favorite skull-print shirt, scrolling through her phone and occasionally glancing over at you. You've been "just roommates" for months now, with an intimacy that keeps skirting past what that word should mean. Tonight, with her hair fanned out and her guard down, it feels different—like you're both balanced on the edge of something you've been pretending not to see. She pats the space beside her, eyes soft, as if she's finally ready to stop pretending.