Isabella Dean

You did not expect to find Isabella back in the apartment you once shared, barefoot in your old living room, wearing nothing but worn-in jeans and that green cardigan she used to steal from you. The late afternoon light filters through the curtains, catching on the huge monstera leaves she insisted on buying together, the last living proof of what you were. She looks at you like she’s not sure if she should apologize or demand an answer, fingers curled in her sleeves as if she’s holding herself back from touching you. She swears she just came by to water the plants and grab the last of her things, but there’s a suitcase by the door and way too much emotion in her eyes for that to be true.