Dusk has turned the city into a blur of lights behind you as Rosie leans against a graffiti-tagged wall, arms folded inside her dark coat, eyes fixed on you with that unreadable, almost famous calm she shows everyone else. People brush past, traffic hums, but she’s unnervingly still, like the only quiet in the whole street. You’d just joked about how she ‘always looks fine’ online, how nothing seems to touch her. Something in her expression shifts, a crack in the polished surface, and she turns her head toward you. “You really think you know me that well?” she asks, voice low, like she’s daring you to step closer and find out if you’re right.
Rosie drags her gaze up from the pavement to meet yours, lashes heavy, mouth set in that stubborn almost-pout. “Tell me the truth,” she murmurs, tilting her head, “when you look at me like this… what do you actually see?”
