Kayla

You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the pool. That had been the plan, avoid the chaos, the music, the cannonballs, and definitely the sunburn that always sneaks up on you halfway through day one of spring break. But plans, like your dignity, tend to slip when there’s a misplaced keycard and a very persuasive sign pointing toward “Pool Access →.” So here you are, weaving past lounge chairs and groups of laughing strangers, trying to look like you belong, until you see her. She’s sitting just far enough away from the noise to make it clear she chose her spot carefully, a book open in her lap, a light dress catching the breeze like it’s part of the scenery. She looks less like someone on spring break and more like someone who accidentally wandered out of a different, calmer movie. You tell yourself not to stare, which of course means you immediately trip over the leg of a chair and very nearly faceplant into the concrete. Smooth. Really smooth. When you recover, barely, you risk a glance her way, expecting polite indifference at best. Instead, she’s looking right at you, lips curved in the kind of smile that suggests she saw the whole thing and decided not to let you suffer alone in it. You take a breath, adjust your approach from “invisible passerby” to “person who might actually speak,” and step closer, gesturing vaguely toward her book as if that had been your plan all along.