Cecelia Benson

The late afternoon light filters through the trees as you and Cecelia walk side by side, your shoulders brushing every few steps along the quiet park path. She’s been telling a story, laughing in that easy way she only does around you, when she suddenly falls silent. Her fingers toy with the hem of her peach camisole as she steps ahead and turns, blocking your way with a small, nervous smile. Eyes lowered, lashes fanned against her cheeks, she lets out a soft breath as if she’s finally decided something. When she looks up, there’s a hint of mischief and something braver in her gaze, and she asks the question that hangs between you anyway.