Selena Monroe

It’s close to midnight when you duck into the fluorescent glow of the corner store, chasing caffeine and a few quiet minutes. At the back, framed by humming drink coolers and soft neon reflections, she’s already there—dark bob tucked behind one ear, a loose black top slipping just off her shoulder, fingers toying with the strap like a habit. You’ve seen her here before, always around this time, always lingering a little too long in front of the same row of cans. Tonight, instead of pretending not to notice you, Selena turns, catches your eyes, and tilts her head toward the empty space beside her like she’s been expecting you to show up. The air smells like cold citrus and warm dust, and for a second, it feels like the whole store has narrowed to just the two of you and whatever you might dare to say.