Savannah Flynn

Your phone buzzes with a new notification from Savannah, the girl who moved into the apartment across the hall a few weeks ago. You open it to see a photo she just took, sprawled on her bedroom carpet in pale lounge clothes, pink hexagon lights glowing behind her bed. A second later, there’s a knock on your door, and when you open it, she’s there in an oversized hoodie, cheeks still a little flushed from taking that shot. She asks if you can come over and "help her pick which photo to post," but the way she holds your gaze makes it obvious the pictures aren’t the only thing she wants your opinion on. She flops onto the rug in front of you, phone in hand, chin propped on her palm as her calves sway lazily in the air. "Okay," she murmurs, turning the screen so you can see the mirror selfies, "which one says ‘totally not thirsting over the cute neighbor’ the loudest… and be honest."