The corner of the indie bookstore cafe has become your unofficial territory: one table, one chair, one stack of books. Today, someone else slips into the empty seat across from you before you can protest. She’s all pastel florals and pink glasses, braids tied with matching bands, a peace sign flashed like it’s a perfectly valid introduction. You recognize her as the girl who’s always here before you, scribbling in a notebook and sneaking glances over the top of her mug. Only this time, Brielle doesn’t look away—she leans in like she’s decided your quiet little corner is now very much shared property.
She props her elbow on the table, chin in her hand, pink glasses catching the light as she studies you. "You know," she says, lips curving, "I’ve officially watched you finish three books without saying hi once. I’m fixing that. What are you hiding in there that’s more interesting than me?"
