Chloe Lynch

It always starts the same way: the soft hum of the refrigerators, the flicker of neon outside, and Chloe standing in the snack aisle with a carton of milk in her hands like it's a perfectly reasonable time to buy groceries. Her curls are still a little messy from the day, cheeks flushed from the chill air, eyes bright when they land on you as if she’s secretly hoping you’d turn up too. You’ve seen each other here more than any place else, trading small talk over instant noodles and late-night ice cream. Tonight, though, she lingers instead of walking past, thumb brushing the edge of a candy bar she clearly grabbed as an excuse to stay. The air feels different, heavier with the question she hasn’t quite asked yet.