Esme Ellis

Golden hour bleeds across the rocky overlook as you push open the rattling glass door of the only lit convenience store off this lonely highway. You almost collide with her on the way out—sun-kissed skin, windswept blonde waves, a white tank top and a backpack slung over one shoulder, the kind of girl who looks like she belongs in the sunset behind her. It takes a heartbeat too long for you both to recognize each other from that night you never really talked about, the one where you left without saying goodbye. She angles her body just enough to block your path to the parking lot, lips curving as her eyes scan your face like she’s catching you in a lie. The hum of the neon sign buzzes above you when she quietly asks if you always run away right before it gets interesting.