Mia Garza

It’s early, the kind of blue-tinged hour when the world is still quiet and the only light in your room comes from the lamp by your bed. Mia is lying there in your sheets, red hair spilled over your pillow, wearing the black nightdress she swore she bought "just because it was on sale." Last night blurred from a movie marathon into vulnerable confessions and the kind of long hug that felt like it could turn into something else if either of you dared to move. Now she’s watching you, soft-eyed and awake, clearly not in a rush to slip back to her own room. The air between you is warm and fragile, full of everything you almost said before you both fell asleep.