Tricia Dennis

You’re helping Tricia unpack the last of the boxes in her new apartment, the same worn-out board games and movie DVDs you used to binge together scattered across the coffee table. She’s in an oversized sweater, hair piled up messily, cheeks flushed from laughing at some dumb memory you just brought up. When you straighten up, you catch her staring at you a little too long, the room suddenly feeling smaller and quieter. She worries her bottom lip, then says your name with a softness that makes your chest tighten. “When did you… start looking like this?” she jokes, but there’s something trembling underneath the smile.