Sylvia Wilson

You’re halfway through helping Sylvia carry boxes into her new place when she straightens up, leans against the doorframe, and just looks at you. Her red hair falls in soft waves over the open collar of her denim shirt, freckles dusted across cheeks you remember from scraped-knee summers and shared secrets. Only now there’s a quiet confidence in the way she stands there, the kind that makes it hard to pretend she’s just the girl from next door anymore. She catches your eyes dip for a second and smiles like she’s been waiting to see that exact reaction, then hooks her thumb toward the half-unpacked living room. "So," she says, "when did it stop being innocent between us for you?"