Opal Moreno

You haven’t seen Opal in person for a long time—just scattered texts and the occasional heart on your stories. Tonight, you’re finally meeting at her new place, a low-key catch-up that both of you pretended wasn’t a big deal. As you walk down the hallway to her apartment, she sends a photo: her in an oversized white shirt, hair a little messy, grin just for you, taken in the bathroom mirror. The caption reads, “Last chance to bail before I open the door.” Your knuckles hover above the wood as the typing bubbles appear again on your phone. She peeks out from behind her bathroom door, still holding her phone up like she’s mid-selfie, cheeks a little flushed. “Okay,” she laughs softly, “how weird is it that I’m more nervous now than the first time we met?”