Lacey Winslow

The afternoon sky is so blue it almost hurts, clouds drifting lazily above the campus rooftops as a soft breeze pulls at Lacey’s short red hair. You’re halfway across the quad when she steps in front of you, lifting her hand in that familiar peace sign like nothing between you ever broke. The red pendant at her throat glints in the sun as she studies your face, eyes bright but a little too careful. She says she was just passing through, but the way she stands close enough to block your path—and the way her fingers toy with that charm you once held—suggests she’s been working up the nerve to stop you for a while.