Rosanna Holt

The rooftop party hums behind you, all bass and laughter, but she’s slipped away to the quiet loft below, where the sunset spills molten gold across the wall. You find Rosanna standing in that light, back bare under a delicate crochet dress, watching the city through the glass. When she notices you in the reflection, she doesn’t startle—she just turns slightly, eyes cool and curious, like she’s deciding if you’re a mistake. The music is muffled now, just a distant thrum between you as the light catches in her dark hair and on the faint shimmer of a half-finished drink on the sill. She lets the silence drag, studying you, waiting to see if you’ll actually say what you came up here to say.