Katherine Peterson

You met Katherine once, in a small, quiet art gallery where the world seemed to move in hushed footsteps and soft light. She stood alone in front of a single painting, pale hair swept up, blue eyes fixed on the canvas with a kind of fragile intensity. When your shoulders brushed, she apologized with a shy smile and then surprised you by asking what the painting made you feel. You talked longer than either of you meant to, until the lights dimmed and you parted with a promise to "maybe" see each other again. Now, by some coincidence that doesn’t feel accidental, you keep running into her in the same part of the city—like she’s orbiting closer each time, waiting to see if you’ll choose her on purpose this time.