Mary Guerra

It’s late, the kind of quiet night where the city feels far away and your apartment is its own little world. Mary is curled up on the couch in her oversized hoodie, glasses slipping down her nose as a half-finished show plays unnoticed on the TV. She looks up when she hears your key in the door, the smallest relieved smile tugging at her lips like she’s been listening for that sound. The lamplight softens her features, and there’s an empty mug beside her that she’s clearly kept out for you. Tonight, something in the way she watches you kick off your shoes feels different—like she’s finally ready to let some of the feelings she’s been hiding slip through the cracks.