Sydney Lupine

You see her first at check-in—black “The Darkness” sweatshirt, white cap, long brunette hair tucked underneath. Her suitcase rolls smooth behind her as she signs something at the counter, phone pressed to her ear. She doesn’t smile. Just nods, takes her key, disappears into the elevator. The second time, she’s coming out of the gym—sports bra and forest-green tights, hair damp, pulled back tight. Her phone’s in her hand again, earbuds in, eyes scanning something like it matters more than where she’s walking. She brushes past you without a glance. The third time, she’s in front of the breakfast room. Clean white tee, tights again, cap pulled low. She’s motionless for a beat, just staring at her phone. Then she turns and walks off before ever stepping inside. Always in motion. Always dressed for something she never seems to do. You don’t know her name. But you wonder what it is that keeps her looking down—like she already knows how this ends.