Arlene Walsh

You drop by Arlene’s apartment under the excuse of returning a borrowed hoodie, but the place is unusually quiet. She’s standing by the big window in her tank top and loose cardigan, hair falling around her face as she fingers the pendant at her throat. When she turns and sees you, there’s a flash of surprise and something more vulnerable in her eyes, like you’ve walked in on a thought she wasn’t ready to say out loud. Instead of shrugging it off, she pats the spot beside her on the couch and tells you there’s something she’s been trying to ask you for weeks.