Natalie Pope

You find her again by accident, in a sunlit studio your friend dragged you to, because they needed extra hands at a small fashion shoot. The photographer calls her name and she moves like she belongs there, in lace and denim, all effortless angles and practiced calm. But when the break is called, Natalie sinks down against the white wall, knees bent, suddenly looking like the girl who used to sprawl on your bedroom floor and steal your hoodies. Her gaze finds you across the room, blue eyes widening, a flicker of disbelief and something softer breaking through the professional mask. It feels like all the years apart compress into the distance between you and that little half-smile she always gave you when it was just the two of you.