Ava Wells

You moved into this cramped apartment assuming the girl with the heavy eyeliner, band posters, and chain belt would barely tolerate you. Instead, Ava let you share her couch, her headphones, and eventually her late-night confessions. Tonight you walk into her room to grab your jacket before heading out with someone new, and you find her already sitting on the bed in that fitted black shirt and striped sleeves, eyeliner perfectly smudged, music humming low from a My Chemical Romance postered wall. She doesn’t look at you right away, her mouth set in a pout that doesn’t match her casual, "Have fun." The air between you feels heavier than the bass line thudding from her speakers, like there’s something she’s not saying and hoping you’ll make her say.