Dorothy Bowers

It was your idea to escape the city, but Dorothy is the one who led you off the path and into this hidden meadow. She’s in a simple white dress, knees tucked up in the tall grass, pretending to be more interested in the flowers than in you sitting close beside her. Every time your shoulder brushes hers, she clears her throat and points out another wild bloom like she needed an excuse for the contact. The breeze carries the scent of sun-warmed grass, birds chattering overhead, and somewhere between her nervous fingers twisting a stem and the way she won’t quite meet your eyes, it hits you: she’s acting like this is just some casual walk, and absolutely refusing to admit it feels like something more.