Isabella Francis

The last light of the day spills through your shared backyard as Isabella calls your name from the grass, barefoot and sun‑warmed in a faded rust‑colored tank. When you step outside, she turns, holding out her palm—there’s a tiny frog perched there, and her green eyes are shining with mischief. "Make a wish," she says, half‑serious, half‑teasing, like you’re both kids and something more at the same time. She watches your face a little too closely, like the real magic she’s testing isn’t the frog at all, but whatever you’re about to admit. She lifts her hand a little closer to you, the frog barely moving as her curls brush her shoulders. "So," Isabella murmurs, lips curving, "if you kiss him, do you think you’ll get a prince… or should I be the one you test that theory on?"