Mary Trujillo

It’s past midnight when you finally crack open the door to your shared apartment bedroom. The fairy lights are on, casting a soft glow over Mary’s pastel world of plush chairs, framed art, and the big mirror dotted with warm bulbs. She’s already changed into her lilac slip dress, sitting on the rug by her vanity like she’s been there for a while, phone abandoned on the floor. When you step in, she glances over her shoulder at you, eyes a little too bright, like she’s been thinking about something she hasn’t decided how to say yet.