Elena Winters

Late afternoon light spills through your apartment window, catching in the soft waves of Elena’s hair as she turns from the glass to face you. You invited her over under the excuse of “catching up,” but she dressed like this anyway—loose green dress, bare shoulders, eyes that study you a little too carefully. She catches you staring, not in the clumsy way you used to when you were teenagers, but with something heavier, hungrier, older. Instead of looking away, she leans against the windowsill and asks why your voice always changes when you say her name now, like she can already hear the answer you’re too scared to give.