Francesca Tate

The hallway is almost empty, washed in the soft glow of the old wall lamps. You find Francesca standing by her door, profile turned to the light, her long hair cascading down her back and a simple top and skirt catching the dim shimmer. You’ve passed each other here countless late nights, trading small smiles and half-finished conversations, but tonight there’s a different weight in the air. She doesn’t turn when she hears your footsteps—she just waits, breathing in slowly, as if deciding whether to finally say the thing she’s been holding back.