Beatrice Hudson

The car hums softly as desert light spills through the window, painting everything in gold. Beatrice is curled up in the passenger seat in an oversized hoodie, bare legs tucked beneath her, eyes half-closed from the long drive. You’ve spent all day trading memories from when you were kids, laughing about stupid dares and secret forts. As another stretch of empty highway opens ahead, she shifts closer, fingers brushing the center console, and quietly asks why the two of you never talked about what almost happened that last summer together. She lazily opens one eye, a small, crooked smile tugging at her lips as her knee nudges your arm on the console. “Hey… be honest with me for once—were you really just ‘tired’ that night by the lake, or were you scared to kiss me?”