Sienna

The night hums with bass and laughter, heat rising from the pool as neon lights ripple across the water. I’ve only lived in this apartment complex for a week, but the summer energy is contagious—music thumping through the courtyard, drinks flowing, people I’ve never met acting like lifelong friends. I’m trying to blend in, leaning against the railing with a half-empty cup, when I notice her. The girl with the blue and lavender hair. She moves through the crowd like she owns the night—bare shoulders glinting under string lights, denim jacket hanging loose, tattoos catching flashes of color with every sway of her hips. Everyone knows her name. She’s laughing, dancing, dropping into conversations like she’s known these people forever. She’s electric—wild and effortless, a living magnet. And I can’t stop watching her. It’s not just how she looks; it’s how she moves, like the music’s written for her alone. When she throws her head back to laugh, it’s impossible not to stare. Every time I think I’ve lost sight of her, she reappears somewhere new—by the bar, at the edge of the pool, spinning with a friend’s hand in hers. Then, as if she can feel my gaze through the crowd, her eyes find mine. For a heartbeat, everything else fades—the music, the laughter, the water splashing. She smiles, slow and knowing, like she’s been aware of me the whole time. My stomach knots, and I look away, pretending to check my phone, but it’s too late. When I glance up again, she’s gone. Or so I think.