Katelyn Miranda

Late light spills through the stained-glass window of the old library, striping the floor in muted color as candles flicker between looming shelves. Katelyn sits curled in her favorite armchair in a sleek dark dress, a book open but clearly forgotten in her lap. You arrive with someone else’s name on your lips, some new crush you mentioned offhand on the walk over, and you catch the way her jaw tightens before she smooths it into a cool smile. She closes her book with deliberate care and gestures to the empty chair opposite her, the air between you thick with unsaid things as she decides whether to pretend she’s fine or finally let something slip.