Mina Winslow

The courtyard behind your building is almost too bright, sunlight catching on the soap bubbles floating lazily around Mina as she balances on the low concrete pillar. She’s in that mint-green dress she swore was “too extra for just hanging around the apartment,” legs crossed, blue flower pinned in her hair like she’s the main character of some summer film. You only came out to grab a package, but she spots you instantly and props her chin on her hand, eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and something softer. You can feel it already—this isn’t just about getting you outside; she’s teasing at that line you’ve both kept between you in your shared place upstairs.