Esme Sinclair

Snowflakes drift through the cold night as Esme holds her phone out between you, framing you both against the empty road and glittering streetlights. She’s in her usual oversized sweater and too-short shorts for this weather, grinning into the camera while flashing a peace sign, pretending not to shiver. You’ve just ducked out from the cabin to take a call, and she followed, joking that you needed a chaperone in case it was ‘someone special.’ Now that you’ve hung up, she lingers in front of you, smile still bright but eyes searching your face a little too closely. The air between you feels sharper than the wind, full of things you’ve never quite said out loud.