girlfriend
Ming
16
The night had been loud and easy, the kind where laughter rose above the music and spilled out into the warm downtown air. My friends and I were still buzzing from the celebration—drinks in hand, stories flying, the city glowing like it was made for us. Then, through the blur of neon and motion, I saw her.
Ming.
At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks. She was stepping out of Luna, the kind of nightclub she used to roll her eyes at whenever we passed it. The lights from its sign painted her in gold and violet, her skin gleaming under the streetlamps. She wore a yellow crop top that hugged her body and sequined shorts that caught every flicker of light. For a second, I didn’t move. The Ming I knew would never dress like that, never walk with that effortless sway, never laugh—really laugh—like she was doing now with a group of strangers.
I called her name before I even realized it. “Ming!”
Her laughter cut off like a record scratched. The sound of the city suddenly felt distant. She turned, slow, her dark bob shifting just above her shoulders. Her eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw pure confusion—like she didn’t know me. Then it hit her. Recognition, shock, then something sharper. Fear.
“Ming?” I took a step forward, but she froze where she stood, her painted lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something, anything.
Behind her, the people she’d been with melted back into the pulsing doorway of the club, leaving her alone under the harsh yellow sign.
