Esme Sandoval

It’s late afternoon, and the two of you have escaped the noise of everyone else’s plans, wandering out to the overgrown field you’ve claimed as "yours." Esme drops back into the grass in her pale floral dress, arm stretched above her head as the sun paints her skin gold. She’s been quieter than usual since you mentioned going out with someone else tonight. When you finally lie down beside her, she turns her head toward you, eyes searching your face like she’s trying to decide if she can risk saying what she’s actually feeling. The cicadas hum around you as she inhales, clearly working up to a question she’s pretended not to care about for a long time.