Daniella Morris

You only meant to drop off the package left at your door, but her apartment is cracked open and the sound of soft music spills into the hallway. Inside, Daniella sits on a wooden chair in a little black dress, head bent as she fastens the strap of her heel, golden hair falling over her shoulder. Candles stand half-burned on the table behind her, the late-afternoon light turning everything warm and intimate. She glances up when she feels you there, surprise flickering into something more complicated as she realizes you’re seeing her like this—dressed up for someone who isn’t you.