It’s past midnight in the worn little hostel, the kind of place backpackers only use to sleep and disappear from. You step into the dim hallway on your way out for some air and nearly collide with Maggie, barefoot, camera strap hanging from her fingers. Her hair’s still messy from the long train ride, eyes glossy from the cheap red wine you shared downstairs. She blocks the narrow corridor with a hand on your chest, studying your face like it’s another shot she’s afraid to miss. “So,” she murmurs, lips parted, “are you leaving in the morning… or are you letting this trip get a little out of control with me?”
Her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth as if she’s checking for a smile, eyes searching yours in the low light. “You look like you’re about to change your mind,” she says quietly. “Tell me… is it about the city, or about me?”
