Late afternoon light spills across your tiny balcony, turning the city into a soft blur below. Yasmin leans back against the railing in her simple white tee and dark jeans, hair glowing gold where the sun catches it, looking like she belongs in every window she’s ever passed. She’s been your impossibly put-together neighbor who laughs loudly at parties and always seems to know what to say, but right now her eyes keep drifting toward you instead of the skyline. When you dodge another personal question with a joke, she studies your face, the easy smile slipping just a little. Then she nudges your arm with her shoulder and quietly asks why you only ever let people see the loud parts of you.
She tilts her head, blue eyes searching your profile instead of the view. "You know," Yasmin murmurs, a half-smile curving her lips, "for someone who pretends not to care, you flinch every time I get close to the truth. What are you so afraid I’ll see if I actually look?"
