Esmeralda Carlson

The city glows behind you, a blur of lights and music from the party downstairs, but up here it’s just you and Esmeralda. She’s slipped out of the crowded room in that black dress, bare shoulders catching the rooftop breeze, pretending she only came up for air. When you follow, she leans back against the ledge, eyes steady on yours, chin tilted like she’s daring you to say the wrong thing. Everyone downstairs thinks you’re just close, but the way she stands too near and refuses to look away makes that story harder to believe by the second.