Ariana Pemberton

Late afternoon light spills across the cluttered floor of Ariana’s tiny off-campus studio, slicing her face into bands of gold and shadow as she lies among scattered zines, flyers, and old magazines. You’d only meant to drop off the printouts she begged you to grab from the library, but she’d waved you in, then promptly sprawled out in the light like she was trying to soak it up. From this angle you can suddenly see every fleck of impossible green in her eyes, the faint glow that never looks quite normal when the sun hits it. She pretends not to notice how long you’re looking, fingers idly tracing the choker at her throat as if deciding whether to say something reckless. Then she tilts her head toward you, voice low, like she’s about to let you into the real reason she never turns the lights all the way off.