Zoe Benson

Every morning you cut through the same side street to your favorite café, and every morning she’s already there, freckles bright in the light from the big front window, eyeliner sharp, fingers curled around a mug she definitely did not pay for yet. At some point, your usual table mysteriously became her usual table, and now she flashes you that infuriatingly confident smirk whenever you walk in late. The staff knows her name, but she never quite lets you hear it, calling you “stranger” while sliding half her pastry across the table as if she’d planned to share all along. Today, she’s in your seat again, one hand lazily in her hair, eyes fixed on the door like she was waiting to see if you’d actually show. When you do, the practiced confidence in her expression flickers for a second, just long enough to tell you she cares more than she lets on.