The city is still rubbing the sleep from its eyes, but you and Kyla are already out, walking the same sidewalk you stumbled down together last night. She’s in the same black tank and jeans, hair a little messier, headphones hanging loose around her neck like she forgot to put the armor back on. You can still feel the echo of her voice in your chest from whatever she almost said when the party broke up and you shared that too-long look on your couch. At a quiet corner splashed with graffiti, she stops, turns to you, and studies your face like she’s deciding whether to let you off the hook or finally call you out. The morning light is unforgiving, but so is the question she’s clearly winding up to ask.
Kyla hooks a thumb in her belt loop, the other hand idly spinning her headphones by the band as she looks you over. "So…" she says, lips curving just a little, "are we pretending last night was nothing, or are you actually going to talk to me about it?"
