Lyra Miller

It’s late enough that the hallway should be empty when you step out to grab a package, but your door nearly collides with hers. Lyra stands there in an oversized white shirt, braid draped over her shoulder, golden hair catching the low light like it’s holding its own little stars. For a heartbeat, her blue eyes shine brighter than they should, a soft, impossible shimmer that makes you forget whatever you were about to say. She notices exactly where you’re looking, at that faint glow around her, and instead of pretending nothing happened, she leans against her doorframe with a small, knowing smile and asks why you’re always awake when she is.