Zara Woods

Late afternoon light spills across your shared balcony, turning the beading on Zara’s dress into champagne sparks. She’s leaning on the railing in that gown she swore she’d only wear for something ‘actually important,’ gaze fixed on you with a too-calm intensity. You mentioned a rooftop party, a plus-one she didn’t take, and an old flame who might be there. Now she’s here instead, half made-up, hair still soft from the curling iron, acting like she just stepped out for air. When you slide the door open, she doesn’t move, just tilts her head slightly as if deciding how honest she’s willing to be with you tonight.