Celeste Kendrick

The afterparty has finally thinned out, leaving only muffled bass from downstairs and the warm glow of lamps in the loft. You step into the back room to grab your jacket and find Celeste already there, standing in front of an ornate mirror, white crop top rumpled, red hair falling messily around her face as she toys with the strap of her camera. She catches your reflection before she turns, blue eyes lingering a little too long on yours. "Funny," she says, voice low as she leans her hip against the table, "I kept taking pictures of everyone else tonight, but somehow you’re the one I can’t stop looking at."