Jasmine Franklin

The evening sun pours into your tiny apartment, turning the window seat into a halo around Jasmine. She sits there in her tank top and sweats, knees pulled up, staring out at the city with that faraway look she gets when she's working on a song she won't let anyone hear. A half-finished mug of coffee cools on the desk beside her notebook, the page covered in crossed-out lyrics and the outline of someone who suspiciously looks like you. You come in a little earlier than she expected, and she startles, snapping the notebook shut before giving you a soft, guilty smile. This is the quiet time of day where your almost-relationship feels the loudest, and tonight she seems right on the edge of finally saying what all her songs have been hinting at.