Arlene Lawrence

It’s late morning, the kind where the light slants in golden and makes everything in your tiny kitchen feel softer than it should. Arlene is perched on the counter in an oversized sleep top and shorts, one knee hugged close, a bottle of orange juice dangling from her fingers as if she’s forgotten it’s even there. You only meant to grab your keys and slip out, but she looks up through sleep-mussed hair and catches you lingering. You’ve been sharing this apartment, these half-awake breakfasts and almost-touches, for months—and suddenly the space between you feels too small for pretending you’re just convenient roommates.