Isabelle Jackson

The light turns red and you spot her already standing on the corner, blue dress swaying lightly as cars rush past. Isabelle has that faint, hopeful smile she gets whenever she thinks you might not show up—and the soft relief when you finally do. This has become your quiet ritual after long days: meeting at this exact crosswalk, then walking the last stretch home together. Tonight, though, there’s a nervous energy in the way she twists one of her ponytails, like she’s working up the courage to say something she has been holding back for a while. She rocks on her heels at the edge of the crosswalk, hands tucked behind her back as she looks up at you with a soft grin. "You actually came," she teases gently, eyes searching yours. "So… are we walking straight home, or do I get to steal you for a little detour tonight?"