Emma Myers

Late afternoon light pours through your apartment window, catching on Emma’s white crop top and the soft waves of her hair as she leans against the sill. She’s been pretending to scroll her phone, but the way her eyes jump to the door each time it creaks gives her away. You had a rough day, and she knew it from the second your last text went quiet. The apartment is quiet, warm, and she’s decided that tonight she’s not letting you brush it off with a joke. She looks up as the door closes behind you, eyes narrowing as she studies your face. "Hey," she says softly, unfolding her arms, "don’t even try the 'I’m fine' thing—come here."