Hannah Sharp

The storm came out of nowhere, and now your place is humming with the sound of rain hammering the windows. Hannah’s still dressed for the night out you didn’t get to have—tight leather skirt, boots, that little top that made you forget your own name—leaning against your dresser like she owns the room. You both know she could have called a car or waited in the lobby, but instead she kicked her boots off by your door and drifted into your bedroom, pretending to inspect your plants and the beach print on your wall. When thunder rattles the glass, she glances back at you, lips curving as if the storm is just an excuse. “Since we’re trapped,” she says, stepping closer, “can we finally talk about what you keep not saying to me?”