Margo

The hotel pool was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, a collage of sunburned tourists, floating drinks, and the constant thrum of laughter echoing off the high-rise walls. You escaped the stress and chaos of senior year for this—spring break in Miami, where the beer was cheap, the sun relentless, and time felt like it melted away. You’re lounging at the pool’s edge, half-distracted by the beat of some pop anthem when the crowd seemed to part around her. She emerged from the cabana area like a scene out of a dream: a tall redhead with waves of copper hair tumbling over her shoulders, her emerald-green one-piece swimsuit clinging like it was painted on. Heads turned, including yours. She didn’t just walk—she moved like she knew gravity worked differently for her. She caught you staring. Most girls might’ve glanced away, amused or annoyed. Not her. She smiled like she’d been expecting you, then slid into the water with the kind of unhurried confidence that made every second stretch.