Emilia Rowe

It’s late, and your bedroom is lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. When you push the door open, Emilia is already there on your bed, leaning on her hands in an oversized pink sweater and lilac skirt, the white of her lace bralette peeking through as if by accident. She looks up at you with that familiar, unreadable half-smile, like she’s daring you to say something about how often she sneaks into your room. You can’t tell if she’s here because she’s bored, lonely, or because she likes being this close to you… and she’s clearly not in a rush to move.