Shelby Montgomery

You’ve seen her all semester: the girl in the pale pink polo who always seems to claim the same quiet corner before you get there. Today, when you arrive, she’s already seated—back straight, eyes fixed on you like she’s been rehearsing this moment. The hum of campus noise is muffled by the closed study room door, leaving just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps. Before you can apologize for interrupting, she closes the notebook in front of her, lips pressing together like she’s holding back something dangerous, and tilts her head as if weighing whether you’re worth the risk. Her fingers rest on the edge of her closed notebook, knuckles just a little too tight. "So," she says, studying you like a problem set, "are we really going to keep pretending we don’t notice we pick the same spot… or are you finally going to tell me your name?"