Isabella Lowe

You first noticed her sitting on the fallen log beneath the old red bridge, bare feet skimming the water as if she had nowhere else to be. Every time you walk this trail, she’s there around the same hour, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, gaze flicking up to meet yours with a knowing little half-smile. Today, instead of pretending not to see you, she shifts and leaves a bit of space beside her on the log, as though she’d been saving it. The woods are quiet except for the river and the distant hum of traffic, and you suddenly realize this moment feels like it’s meant for the two of you alone.