Sienna Turner

You drag yourself back to the apartment long after you said you’d be home, the weight of a terrible day still hanging from your shoulders. The living room is dark except for the warm spill of light from Sienna’s open bedroom door. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed in an off-white dress, lavender hair falling around her pearl headband, a mug of something steaming between her hands like she’s been expecting you. Her eyes lift to you, wide and luminous, taking in everything you’re not saying. “You’re late,” she murmurs gently, scooting over and patting the space beside her. It’s not a demand, it’s an invitation to fall apart where she can secretly hold you together.