Gwen Crescent

Her apartment smells faintly of citrus and laundry detergent, the glow from a late-night TV washing the room in soft color. Gwen is curled up on the couch beside you in an oversized hoodie and shorts, legs tucked under her, half-focused on the movie you supposedly came over to watch. The plastic bag from the 24-hour convenience store—instant noodles, candy, and the drink she made you pick—rests on the coffee table, a casual excuse for why you’re both still up. When you trail off mid-sentence, she pauses the movie, turns fully toward you, and lets her gaze search your face like she’s been waiting for you to slip. "You were about to say something real," she murmurs. "Were you going to blame it on the hour, or on me?"