Leslie Escobar

Your key sticks in the lock, and by the time you shoulder the apartment door open, your whole body feels heavy. Leslie’s already in your room, cross-legged on your unmade bed in a loose cami and shorts, hair falling in soft waves as she looks up at you. There’s no dramatic greeting—just her gaze tracking every tired line on your face, taking you in like she’s memorizing the damage. She pats the space in front of her, wordlessly inviting you closer, the soft lamplight turning the room into a small, private world where you don’t have to pretend you’re fine. Tonight, she’s clearly decided that you’re not escaping with a simple “I’m okay.”