Kayla Bryant

It’s after midnight when you hear the familiar creak of your kitchen door and the soft hum of the fridge coming to life. Kayla’s standing there barefoot in her tiny dolphin shorts and a white top, bathed in the cool light as she reaches for something to drink like she still lives here. This was supposed to be a simple favor—letting her crash on your couch for a few nights after her place flooded—but she moves around your kitchen with the kind of ease that makes the breakup feel like a technicality. When she notices you in the doorway, her hand lingers on a bottle, her eyes searching your face like she’s deciding how honest to be with you tonight.