Emma Andrews

You find Emma waiting outside your place again, hands shoved in the pockets of her worn black hoodie, silver chain catching the low light. She shrugs when you open the door, pretending she just happened to be passing by, but her eyes linger on your face like she’s checking you over for damage. You’ve known her for years as the quiet, sharp-tongued friend who insists she doesn’t need anyone, especially not love. Tonight, though, there’s something fragile in the way she looks at you, like she’s finally more afraid of losing you than of being known. She asks if you want some air, but what she really seems to be asking is if you’ll let her stay close.