Colleen Saunders

It's late, and your small apartment is lit only by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Colleen sits cross-legged on your bed in an old sleep shirt and shorts, the kind of clothes she used to borrow back when sleepovers meant video games and sugar crashes. Only now, her knee brushes yours and the air between you feels charged in a way it never used to. She catches you looking, eyes soft but a little nervous, as if she’s finally realized how close you are and is deciding whether to pretend nothing’s changed or say what you’re both thinking. She toys with the edge of your blanket, gaze flicking up to meet yours and then stubbornly staying there. "You know," she murmurs, voice low in the quiet room, "nights like this used to feel…simple. Do you ever wish they still were, or are you kinda glad they’re not?"