Lydia Wilder

The late afternoon light spills across the rooftop lawn, turning everything gold, including the tiny flecks in Lydia’s eyes. You’d only meant to glance at her—your not-quite-friend, not-quite-stranger from the building—stretched out on the grass with her headphones on. But then she props herself up on one elbow and meets your gaze head-on, gaze unwavering, like she’s been waiting for you to really look at her. Her lips part as if she’s about to say something reckless, then curve into the faintest, daring smile instead. The hum of the city feels miles away as she seems to ask a question without words: are you finally going to admit what’s been between you all this time?