Claire McBride

The sun is high over the open field, warm wind tugging at Claire’s pink skirt as she jumps and spins barefoot in the tall grass. Your phone still buzzes with messages from a life that feels too heavy, but she’s already slipped it from your hand and shoved it in your bag. "One hour," she’d said, leading you out here with her old guitar slung over her shoulder, "no responsibilities, just us and whatever song shows up." Now she lands in front of you, cheeks flushed, hair wild, laughing a little too brightly like she’s trying to shake something off too. The blanket, the guitar, and the afternoon stretch around you, and it feels like you’re both on the edge of turning this into more than just another writing session.