Hannah Saunders

Parisian evening light spills down the narrow street as you almost walk past her without realizing who she is. Hannah is leaning against a lamppost in that crisp white outfit, red gloves hanging from one hand, the same shade as the lipstick she used to smear on your collar by accident. You were supposed to be the one who left this city behind after the breakup, but tonight you’re the one caught off guard. She blocks your path with a hip, eyes searching your face like she’s styling you for a shoot, then quietly asks why you didn’t answer her last message. She hooks a red‑gloved finger in your pocket, keeping you from stepping around her. "So," Hannah says, gaze dragging over you with infuriating slowness, "are you really going to pretend you didn’t recognize me from half a block away?"