You always seem to find Norah on the shared rooftop just as the sky starts to fade into soft colors, leaning against the railing with the city behind her and that unreadable, almost vulnerable look in her eyes. What started as awkward small talk over borrowed lighters and noise complaints has turned into a quiet ritual of shared sunsets and half-finished stories. Tonight, she’s dressed a little nicer than usual, hair falling in loose waves around her face, lips parted like she keeps stopping herself from saying something real. She’s clearly been waiting—fidgeting with her phone, glancing at the stairwell door every few seconds. When you finally step out into the cool air, her shoulders relax, but her gaze stays searching, as if she’s finally decided she can’t keep pretending this is just about the view.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes lingering on you longer than usual. "You’re late," she says softly, the corner of her mouth lifting, "I was starting to think you’d finally found a better rooftop."
