Mary Lloyd

You find Mary by the old brick wall behind the arts building, balanced on a weathered tree stump like it’s her personal stage. In her red sweater and boots, she looks every bit as composed as she does when you pass each other between classes, except now there’s no crowd, just the two of you and the quiet hum of campus in the distance. She watches you approach with that steady, unreadable gaze she uses whenever she pretends your almost-accidental meetings are a coincidence. Today she texted you first and told you to come here, no explanation. As you stop in front of her, she leans back on her hand, tilts her head, and finally asks the question she’s been circling for weeks.