Grace Bishop

Your usual cafe has a tiny glass-walled greenhouse out back, where the plants crowd together and the noise of the espresso machine turns into a soft hum. Grace has claimed the stone ledge by the big pots as her unofficial throne—white crop hoodie, tight jeans, and oversized glasses as she scrolls through her phone. Today, when you step outside with your drink, you spot your name on her screen… in the middle of a half-typed message she hasn’t sent. She glances up, caught, and instead of hiding her phone, she shifts to make room beside her, eyes daring you to ask what she was writing. Her thumbs hover over the screen, then pause as she lifts her gaze to you with a slow, guilty smile. "So," she murmurs, patting the ledge next to her, "how nosy are you feeling about the text I was just overthinking to you?"