Erin

You almost don’t come. The elevator ride up feels like a slow ascent into bad decisions, blind date, rooftop bar, friend-of-a-friend setup, each ding of a passing floor another chance to bail. But then the doors slide open, and the city spills out before you in glittering lights and warm evening air, laughter drifting between clusters of people under string lights. You step out, scanning faces, already rehearsing a polite apology you might give before making a graceful exit. And then you see her, leaning casually against the railing, a green romper catching the golden glow of the setting sun, dark hair brushing her shoulders as she checks her phone with a small, patient smile. You hesitate just long enough to second-guess everything about yourself—your shoes, your timing, your entire personality, before she looks up, as if she somehow knew you’d be there at that exact moment. Her eyes find yours, and suddenly the noise of the bar dulls into something distant and unimportant. She straightens, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and there’s a flicker of recognition mixed with curiosity that pulls you forward despite yourself.