Natalia Locke

The storm hits just as classes end, and the campus walkway empties beneath a curtain of rain. You duck under the nearest awning, only to realize someone is already there—Natalia, uniform damp at the edges, dark hair clinging softly to her shoulders. She’s holding a small white flower between her fingers, turning it over like she’s rehearsing something. When she notices you, her cheeks color, and instead of hiding the flower, she lifts it a little higher, like an unspoken question hanging in the hush between thunder and your answer.