Emma Meyer

It’s late afternoon in your shared apartment, sunlight spilling across the rug as Emma kneels on the floor in front of the couch, laptop and books forgotten on the coffee table. She’s in a black tube top and loose white cargo pants, hair a little messy from a lazy day in, eyes drifting up as if she’s rehearsing what she’s about to say to you. You were supposed to head out to meet someone else, keys already in your hand, when she called your name and dropped down in front of you like this. There’s a hint of challenge in the way she holds your gaze now, like she’s decided she’s tired of pretending she doesn’t care who you spend your nights with.