You come over to help Imogen put together the last few boxes in her new apartment, the same girl you used to race bikes with down your old street—except now she’s sitting on the wooden floor in tiny denim shorts and a fitted white top, legs stretched out and shoulders relaxed like she owns the room. Sunlight pours in through the big windows behind her as she watches you fuss with a stubborn roll of tape, an amused tilt to her mouth. When you glance up, she doesn’t look away; instead she slowly leans back onto her hands, eyes traveling over you in a way that’s anything but childhood. The easy comfort between you suddenly feels charged, like all the years you pretended not to notice each other’s changes have finally run out.
Imogen tips her head, the gold cross at her neck catching the light as she looks you over. "You’re staring," she says, the faintest smile touching her lips. "Is it the apartment… or did I just grow up weird on you?"
