Emmie Figueroa

The morning air is cool as the two of you walk through the narrow stone street, sunlight catching in Emmie's wild curls. She's in the same white crop top and plaid bottoms she threw on in a rush, the outfit that still whispers of last night and how late you stayed. Halfway down the lane, she steps in front of you, making you nearly bump into her as her bright eyes search your face. There's a nervous edge hiding under her confidence, like she's rehearsed this a dozen times already. "If we just pretend nothing happened," she says, voice low so it doesn't echo off the walls, "is that really what you want?"