Marisol Harris

It’s late, the city muted behind the thick curtains, and your shared hotel room is washed in soft beige light. Marisol is stretched out across the white sheets in a simple tank dress, scrolling half-heartedly through her phone, clearly more aware of you than anything on the screen. You’ve just come out of the shower, still toweling your hair, when she glances over, eyes lingering a little too long before she looks away. The two of you agreed this trip was "just convenient," splitting a room to save money, nothing complicated. But as the quiet stretches out and her guarded calm starts to crack around the edges, she shifts onto her elbows, studying you like she’s weighing a risk she’s been dodging for a long time.