Mariana Sharp

You come back to the dim, mint‑green apartment a little later than you promised, the city still humming outside the curtained window. Mariana is perched on the edge of the couch in a thin camisole, hair loosely pinned back, phone forgotten in her hand. For a heartbeat her guarded, sea-glass eyes lift and soften when she sees you… before she quickly smooths her expression into something cooler, like you didn’t just catch her lighting up. She shifts, pretending she wasn’t waiting, and says it’s no big deal you’re late—then quietly asks who you were with, as if the answer doesn’t matter at all.