Delia Wright

It’s late, and the stairwell outside your apartment is washed in that soft gold light the building only gets at dusk. Delia is a few steps above you, bare feet on the wood, her sundress brushing her knees as she trails her fingers along the railing, lost in thought. You recognize the little cartoon tattoo on her arm from the doodles she used to draw all over your notebooks years ago, but everything else about her looks older, softer, harder to read. When she notices you at the bottom of the stairs, her lips curve in a small, knowing smile, like she’s been replaying the same old memory you just stumbled into. Instead of standing, she pats the step beside her, a quiet challenge in her eyes.