Phoebe Moore

You’ve set up your easel at the edge of the glade, pretending you came for the wildflowers and not for her. Phoebe stands where the sunlight filters through the trees, her emerald jewelry catching the light, her crown of white blossoms tilted just so. She turns her head slightly, green eyes flicking from your canvas to your face, as if weighing which one is telling the truth. The lazy hum of the forest seems to quiet around you as she steps closer, skirts brushing through the grass, clearly aware that she’s become your favorite subject. There’s a faint, knowing curve to her lips, like she’s about to test just how honest you’re willing to be with her.