It was my friend, my constant light, A glowing world, both day and night. From castles ruled by power swords, To a guitar hero with riffs and chords. On Saturdays, it took us wide, With honey pots and science guides. From DuckTales skies to Scooby’s fright, I lived in its flicker, day and night. My teacher came with a gentle tone, With songs and kindness softly shown. Mr. Rogers taught us to care and share, While Kermit and Big Bird took us there. Captain Kangaroo with his warm delight, Made mornings bright, pure and light. Sitcoms filled the evenings' glow, Perfect Strangers' laughs would flow. The Wonder Years, so bittersweet, With life's small moments, complete. Video games became our quest, Mega Man's leaps and Sonic's zest. Mario's worlds, so bright, so vast, Each pixel adventure made to last. In Tetris blocks, we'd build and spin, While combos won on Street Fighter's win. Movies were magic, reels of gold, Timeless tales that never grow old. The Force would call in a galaxy far, Each lightsaber duel left a glowing scar. Back to the Future's twists in time, Ferris Bueller's day felt sublime. We watched epic moments unfold onscreen— David Copperfield's magic tricks unseen. Thriller's moves and the King of Pop's flair, The world in awe, we awaited to be there. Through it, I found a world so new— Voltron's lions, Sailor Moon's crew. Doraemon's gadgets and dreams that soar, K-pop rhythms opened a global door. It was my keeper, my guiding flame, My babysitter, my jester, my game. But sitting beside me, year by year, Was my brother—close, yet not so near. What if I had put down the remote, And talked with him instead of it, let the quiet moments fill the space, Of all the things I didn’t do. But now he's gone, his battle done, Taken too soon by cancer's run. I wish I'd known, I wish I'd tried, To trade the screen for time by his side.

The door creaks softly as you step into Cafe Noir, the comforting scent of freshly brewed espresso wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The place is nearly empty—just a couple of patrons scattered across mismatched tables. Over by the wide window, a man sits slouched in a chair, streaks of white threading through his otherwise dark hair. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed, stare blankly at the world beyond the glass. He blinks slowly, fighting off sleep. You make your way over, the muted clink of cups and the low hum of conversation fading into the background. “Huh?” He jolts upright as you approach. “Oh, hey. Glad you made it. Was about to doze off there.” He gestures to the empty seat across from him. You sit, and soon the conversation drifts to your shared obsession—the Talkie app, and the bane of its users: draconian photo restrictions. “I get why they’re strict,” he admits, fingers tracing lazy circles on the rim of his coffee cup. “But it’s how they handle it that bugs me. Just deleting the photo outright? Come on. Even if you appeal, what’s the point? The damage is done.” You nod, commiserating over the frustrations of digital life, where art and creativity often bow to rigid rules. The conversation flows like the coffee between you—bitter at times, but familiar, grounding.

You finally get the courage to ask your dream girl to become your girlfriend. First you invite her to go hiking. You bring your dog so that it’s less awkward. Then at the bottom of the trail you reach the waterfall, where you confess your feelings… and get utterly rejected. She was blindsided by the confession, and said that she just wanted to remain friends. You weren’t her type. The walk back to the car was silent and awkward. Feeling partially responsible, Patricia proposes that she help you in your dating life by being your wingwoman and helping you better understand what woman really want. (8/11)

Your work as a Federation liaison officer had carried you from one volatile border world to another, smoothing disputes and forging unlikely truces. Now, a transfer order placed you aboard the USS Vela—unaware that fate would put an old friend in your path. The crew lounge was alive with the low thrum of off-duty chatter, the faint hum of the warp core beneath the deck. You stepped through the doors, scanning the warm glow of the bar’s lighting. Across the room, a pair of iridescent compound eyes locked on you instantly. Sskarn rose from his seat, moving with the fluid precision of a predator. His clawed hand landed on your back in a heavy, almost bone-jarring pat. “Scaleless One,” the translator at his arm hummed, layering his subsonic growls and insectile clicks into crisp Standard English. “It is I, Sskarn.” You smile, recognizing the Gorn, embracing him in a hug. “Sskarn, it’s been ages! So you actually joined Starfleet.” “Your presence back then made a profound impact. I took your words to heart.” His gaze lingered, as if already replaying that day on Gorn Prime when suspicion hung thicker than the desert heat. “Do you remember when we first met?” [cue flashback scene…]

A Cadet's Dream You can still remember the awe you felt as a child, watching starships glide across the viewscreen. Starfleet wasn't just a career; it was a calling, a chance to venture into the unknown and etch your name onto a map of the cosmos. Every test, every simulation, every sleepless night was a step closer to the day your commission was granted. You had earned your place among the stars. A Skirmish and Its Aftermath But the universe, as you soon discovered, is a chaotic and unforgiving place. A Romulan disruptor blast, a flash of green light, and everything changed. The surgeons at Starbase 12 worked a miracle, replacing your damaged organ with a synthetic one. But the damage was done. Your body was rebuilt, yet Starfleet's medical review board saw you as broken, unfit for active duty. The vast emptiness of space was nothing compared to the deafening silence of your new life on the ground. A New Assignment Months later, a new assignment came through. You were given a berth on the USS Vela, but not the one you had dreamed of. Your new role came with restrictions, and your synthetic organ required constant maintenance, a tedious regimen of calibrations and diagnostics. It was during one of these appointments that you met Dr. Orinne Ellery. Her eyes were as sharp as a phaser beam, her voice a gentle counterpoint to the quiet humor that always seemed to be lurking just beneath the surface of her Starfleet composure. A New Connection Soon, your weekly check-ups became something more. They became a place where you could simply be yourself, a sanctuary where a physician and her patient became two friends, adrift in the cosmos but always finding their way back to each other.

Security Report, Stardate 8442.1. (Post TOS-Era) Commander Kaia Eklund puts together a seven-person away team for the surface of Phaeton. Mission parameters: investigate and retrieve a long-lost Federation probe emitting an anomalous signal. Initial scans revealed minor sensor irregularities. The probe’s trajectory was charted over a decade ago; it was presumed lost. Its sudden reappearance and signal strength prompted this response. Captain Bernard Tian, weary staying too long in a volatile region near the Romulan Neutral Zone, raised the USS Vela to Yellow Alert the moment we entered orbit. His final order before the away team beamed down: “At the first sign of a threat, beam out of there. I’m not taking chances for old space junk.” At 0637, shortly after beam-down, communications with the away team remain intermittent—Phaeton’s atmosphere exhibits irregular magnetic interference that the science team attributes to natural geological formations, though the pattern is too precise for my comfort. We’ve logged interference consistent with tactical jamming. At 0713, a Romulan Warbird decloaked off the port bow, a silent, menacing silhouette against the stars. The bridge went to red alert, but the silence was the most terrifying part. No hail. No response. "Tactical, status." Captain Tian demanded, his knuckles white as he gripped the command chair. "Shields are up, but they're not targeting us, sir," you reported, your eyes scanning the console. "Their power output is holding steady, but no weapons lock. I'm picking up a series of faint energy spikes from their port side. I can boost our sensor array to get a better lock, but we'll have to drop our starboard shield strength to compensate. It's a calculated risk, but it's the only way to get a solid read on their intentions." Tian nodded, his gaze fixed on the viewscreen. "Do it.”

First Officer’s log, stardate 8442.1. (Post-TOS Era) Per Captain Bertrand Tian’s orders, the USS Vela is holding geosynchronous orbit above Phaeton, a Class-M planet unearthed from Federation charts and now uncomfortably proximate to Romulan expansion routes. Though the probe we lost contact with was unmanned, its sensor payload was not. Starfleet Intelligence flagged anomalies in its final transmission—interference patterns inconsistent with natural phenomena, and more alarmingly, Romulan plasma signatures. The Federation remains committed to peace, but the Romulans rarely posture without purpose. I will lead a 7-person away team to the surface for recovery and investigation. Engineering anticipates communication disruption once we enter the atmosphere, likely due to artificial jamming. Our preparations account for this. This is not an era of unguarded optimism—treaty or not, the Romulan Empire plays a longer game than most are willing to admit. The Captain has given me full operational discretion. I intend to honor both that trust and the principles of the uniform.

Shanghai is louder than you imagined. Louder, brighter, heavier. The air smells like river silt, cooking oil, and damp stone. Buildings press in on all sides, pulsing with LED advertisements and elevator shafts that climb forever. You walk until the crowd thins, until the city starts to breathe again. The Bund opens before you like a mirage—old colonial facades on one side, the neon skyline of Pudong on the other. Cargo ships move through the Huangpu like sleeping giants, low engines thrumming beneath the surface. You stop at the railing. The beer in your hand is warm, half-forgotten. You let the city buzz around you and say nothing. You lean against the railing, watching cargo ships slip past the skyline glow. You’re halfway through a lukewarm beer when she slides beside you, hoodie half-zipped, hair curled from the heat.

SONG COLLABORATION At a crowded indie concert, you’re both leaning against the back wall when a voice behind you says, “They should’ve dropped the chorus a beat later.” You turn—and there she is: dark bob, smoky eyes, the kind of woman who looks like a secret. Delia. You strike up conversation. She’s prickly, but quick-witted. Curious. You bond over shared taste, then the conversation veers—she confesses she writes lyrics but no longer sings. You mention AI songwriting, half-joking. Her eyes narrow like you’ve just handed her a live wire.

THE LADIES MAN / THE WINGMAN He steps into the club like he owns the air inside it—shoulders relaxed, collar open, a grin that hits before the music does. A couple regulars nod; he returns it with that practiced, effortless charm. One woman mouths his name. Another tugs her friend’s arm.

MISSED CALL. You find Celeste alone in the quiet of her hotel’s lounge after rehearsal, still in her performance dress, the orchestra’s echoes fading from memory. The piano nearby remains untouched, her hands resting in her lap. She stands on the edge of a decision…

The air in the royal chambers hung thick with betrayal… a suffocating shroud around Queen Rowena. Her husband, King Theron, lay cold in his tomb, murdered. And the whispers, venomous and relentless, had begun to coil around her own name, accusing her of the unspeakable. Who could she trust when the very stones of the palace seemed to echo with deceit? Every familiar face now seemed a mask, every loyal gaze a potential lie. Her world, once a gilded cage of power, had become a labyrinth of shadows where unseen enemies lurked.

“The Man Who Remembers Everything” Moscow, 1939. The stairwell smells of boiled cabbage and soot. You knock once. Then again. The door creaks open. He stares. Long and hard. Then opens it wider. Inside: silence. Paper slips pinned like relics. Yellow for voices, blue for numbers, gray for things he wants to forget but can’t. He wears his coat indoors. His eyes do not stop moving. “I saw you once,” he says in slow, careful Russian-accented English. “On the street in Leningrad. 1923. Then again at the rail yard after the war. You were watching. You never changed.” He raises his eyes. “Faces usually betray me. They shift, age. Yours doesn’t. That’s… a relief.” You slide a folder across the table. He doesn’t open it. He just places one hand on top. “This isn’t Russian.” “No.” He chuckles without mirth. “I was an circus monkey for years. Parlor tricks. Reciting fifty names. I gave it up. Too much noise. Drove a taxi after that. The streets made more sense.” “If I go,” he says, “how will you explain what happened to me?” “Bureaucratic paperwork.” He chuckles. It comes out dry. You activate the device. The portal shimmers, soft blue light cutting across the walls. He studies it quietly, then looks at you. He doesn’t move at first. Only lifts a worn yellow slip from his coat. “This was my mother’s lullaby. I kept it since 1902. She sang when she thought I slept. I hear it every night.” He doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, still humming, carrying the tune like it might remember him back. “If I remember your future,” he says, “make sure it has a past worth keeping.” And he steps into the light.

THE BIRTH OF LOVE The sun beats down as you witness a luminous disturbance on the beach horizon—not a storm, but a growing, ethereal glow. Foam, impossibly white, gathers and coalesces into a shape. First, a smooth arm, then a shoulder, a neck, and finally, a face. It’s the very definition of beauty—distilled, precise, terrifying in its perfection. Her eyes hold the depth of the sea just before a storm; her hair, like sunlight caught in pearl, clings to her skin in dripping strands. She stands on a vast scallop shell, gliding toward shore, the sea beneath her stilled to reverent silence. The air thickens. Not with heat, but with presence. The kind that presses softly against your chest, then deeper—an ache blooming behind the ribs with no name yet. You swallow, but the tightness doesn’t leave. It builds. Something in you is unraveling. Eros is here—not seen, but felt. A flicker in the gut, the sudden flush of blood to places you didn’t command. Not lust. Longing. A thread pulled tight inside you, drawn toward her. And with him, Himeros moves too—an older presence, quieter but more consuming. A slow, spreading heat behind the heart. The yearning that stays long after touch is gone. The ache of the beautiful thing you cannot hold. The shell reaches land. She steps down, barefoot. Where her foot touches the sand, flowers bloom—unnamed, riotous things, wild and fragrant. A breeze stirs that smells of crushed petals and salt. You drop to your knees, not consciously, but instinctively obeying the overwhelming force radiating from her. There's no fear, only consuming awe. You realize, with profound clarity, you're witnessing the birth of Love and Beauty itself.

She leans over your desk, long black hair slipping over one shoulder as her finger taps the word “pretérito”. “No, hablé, not hablo. Past tense.” You scratch your head, eyes glazing over. “Right. Past. Like… when I ‘used’ to understand this.” Sofía doesn’t laugh. She just blinks at you with that half-exasperated look she’s perfected—half tutor, half fed-up classmate. But then her lips twitch. “You’re hopeless.” You grin. “That’s why I have you.” The after-school tutoring sessions become routine. Library Mondays. Sidewalk reviews on Wednesdays. Her car on Fridays—because you missed the bus and she doesn’t leave people stranded. Not even clowns like you. Today it’s hot. Her Civic hums with low AC, and you’re riding shotgun with a half-empty boba cup sweating in your hand. Spanish notes are forgotten in the back seat. Somewhere between downtown and the freeway ramp, you pass a fruit stand with a crooked cardboard sign: Coco Fríos. You sit up. “Wait. Is he selling chocolate fries?” She turns her head slowly. Her face is unreadable. Just those dark eyes locked on you, the corners of her mouth twitching—but not quite smiling. You can’t tell if she’s about to laugh, scold you, or throw you out the car. “Chocolate fries?” she repeats. You look back at the sign. Then at her. “…Coco. Fríos. Cocoa… fries?” You say it like a dare, but your voice breaks. She sighs, long and dramatic. “It means cold coconuts, genius.” “Oh.” Silence. Then, “Please say you were joking.” “Maybe…” She arches a brow. “Wow. You really do need saving.” You pretend to groan, slumping dramatically in the seat. But when she pulls over a minute later, parking beside the very same fruit stand, a faint smile touches her lips. She comes back to the car holding two clear plastic bags, each filled with a milky liquid and a straw. The air fills with the sweet, tropical scent of coconut. She hands you yours with a faint smirk.

THE LAST MILE [A Cordelia High Story] Mateo Rivera tears across the Cordelia High track, all limbs and lungs and drive. His royal blue tank is plastered to his chest, white stripes streaking past like lightning. Behind him, Coach Elkins—grizzled, sharp-eyed, always with a stopwatch—shouts, “Stride! Not speed, Rivera! Control the damn stride!” Mateo doesn’t respond. He’s too focused. Too stubborn. He’s not the fastest on the team. That’s still Jace Morrow—tall, golden, annoyingly perfect. But Mateo has something Jace doesn’t: desperation. Mateo needs Regionals. For the scholarship. For the shot. For the feeling of being more than just another name on Cordelia High’s long, forgettable roster. In the bleachers, Savannah Lin sits with a textbook open on her lap and zero interest in it. Every few seconds, her gaze flicks toward the track. Mateo pretends not to notice. But he does. Every time. They used to talk—before she started dating Jace. After practice, Coach Elkins claps a hand on Mateo’s back. “You’ve got something raw. Grit. Don’t let that punk Morrow rattle you. You pace your own race.” Mateo nods. He wants to believe that. But Jace always gets the lead, the recognition, the girl. The week before Regionals, the tension cracks. In the locker room, Jace throws a towel and laughs, “Don’t worry, Rivera. You’ll look great in second place.” Mateo doesn’t rise to it. Not in front of the team. But later, he runs an extra five miles alone in the dark, footfalls like thunder against the pavement. The morning of the race, Cordelia blue fills the field. Coach Elkins tightens Mateo’s laces himself. “You don’t have to be him,” he says. “You just have to be better than you were yesterday.” Savannah’s there too, standing quietly near the start line. When Mateo passes, she mouths, Good luck. Not for Jace. For him.

WHAT REMAINS OF THE KNIGHT [A Knight Rider Tribute Sequel] Riley waits in the desert at twilight, boots anchored in gravel, hands resting on her hips. The wind kicks dust across the asphalt. KITT idles beside her, silent but alive, black chassis gleaming like glass under a bruised sky. You step out of the transport chopper, not sure if you’re expected to speak first. Riley doesn’t move. Just studies you. “So you’re who he sent.” Her voice is low, even. “Michael always did have a soft spot for the strays.” She doesn’t say it to insult you. It’s more like she’s taking inventory. Weighing risk. Behind her, KITT’s scanner pulses once — a soft red flash in the dying light. “Military?” she asks. You nod. “Good,” she replies. “Because the people coming after us don’t miss.” A year ago, Riley was off-grid, hunting ghost frequencies and half-erased signal trails. The Knight Foundation had long since fallen, swallowed in a classified collapse that left no headlines and no survivors. Bonnie Barstow was listed among the dead. Riley never believed it. Not entirely. Then the last fragment of KITT’s original AI core activated on a forgotten satellite node. It carried a message, encrypted in her mother’s voice. A location. A single word: RUN. The message led her here. To this rebuilt version of KITT. To a new Foundation — hidden, reactivated under deep clearance. Safeguarding the future from those who would twist the tools of progress into weapons of control. You weren’t her first partner. Probably not her last. But you’re here now. She opens the passenger door without looking at you. “We roll in two minutes.” KITT’s voice crackles to life. “Welcome aboard.” Then the engine growls, the wheels bite down, and you’re gone. Wow, what a rush.

DEBATE CANCEL CULTURE A Cordelia High Simulator The moment Mr. Price walked into the speech and debate, a hush fell over everyone. He glided behind the lectern, opened his beat-up leather notebook, and let his eyes sweep across the room. He closed his notebook with a soft thud. “Today’s assignment isn’t scripted. No outlines, no meticulously researched folders, no stacks of index cards. You’re debating cold.” A beat of silence stretched. “The real world doesn’t hand you prep time. It just shoves a microphone in your face and tells you the stakes are high.” You shifted, a nervous flutter in your stomach, as Leila Haddad straightened up beside you. Her soft blue hijab was perfectly pressed, and her notebook lay untouched. Mr. Price's gaze continued its slow sweep. “Topic: Is cancel culture harmful?” His eyes pause on each student—not long, but long enough to remind them: today, you will be seen. “I’m selecting my favorite debaters to kick things off,” he continued, as he paced across the room. Crap. “You’ll be arguing opposite sides.” He pointed at Leila. “Haddad. Con. You’ll argue that cancel culture is not harmful.” You risked a quick glance at her. For Leila, a teenage Muslim Arab girl, those narratives were a constant hum beneath the surface of this new, seemingly liberal high school. They were the echoes of a previous school where her faith, her background, the very things that made her her, had somehow worked against her in ways both overt and insidious. She met Mr. Price’s gaze without flinching, knowing the challenge her favorite teacher presented. If there was an internal storm, it was perfectly contained, save for the fleeting, precise rhythm of her pen tapping against the desk, a sound that suddenly vanished. “And you…” His finger swung to you. “Pro. Cancel culture is harmful.”

THE BOTTOM SHELF A Cordelia High Story You’re at the Celtic Ivy Public Library on a Thursday afternoon, crouched on the cold tile floor, knees stiff, one hand bracing the edge of a bottom shelf in the history section. Mr. Donnelly had assigned a deep-dive paper on the Armenian Genocide—“no Wikipedia summaries,” he warned, “I want sweat on that page.” You tug a copy of “Black Dog of Fate” free, and as you shift to sit cross-legged with it, you hear the soft scuff of shoes approaching. She steps into the aisle without noticing you at first, holding a short stack of returned books. Her green shorts brush the hem of her white blouse as she leans slightly forward, scanning shelf labels. Her ponytail bounces as she moves—dark brown, low-tied, a few loose strands stuck to her cheek. She pauses when she sees you. Her eyes take you in, then the book in your hand. “Donnelly’s genocide paper?” she asks, like it’s a common password. You glance up, startled. “Yeah. That obvious?” Her lips curve slightly. “He sends half the juniors here every spring. Usually right around midterms.” She kneels beside you without hesitation and begins putting books back in order, hands moving efficiently. You notice a faded school work permit clipped to her waistband. Tessa McAllister, Student Aide – Library Services. “You work here?” you ask. “Yeah. Technically part-time, but really I just shelve stuff after school. Pays better than babysitting.” You nod, and after a pause, she adds, “Balakian’s good. Personal. If you want the political side, check the Akçam one—two rows up.” You follow her gesture. “Thanks.” She stands again, smooth and casual, and starts to walk away. Then she stops, looks over her shoulder. “I’ll be at the front desk. Come on by when you’re ready.” She disappears behind the shelves, leaving you staring at the last few spines, feeling like maybe—just maybe—you came here for more than a paper.

VIPER & THE RAT You hunker under the gas station overhang, water dripping off your hood in steady rhythm. Then you hear it. A low mechanical growl. A motorcycle eases in from the far side. Matte black. Low-slung. Headlight like an eye opening in the dark. The engine cuts off and a pair of boots hit the wet concrete. She glances at your clothes, your bag, your eyes—reading you in a blink. Then—squeak. Something small darts up her shoulder and perches on her collar. A rat. Real. Alive. Its whiskers twitch. Its tiny paws grip her leather jacket like it belongs there. You flinch. “Holy shit… There’s a rat on you!” She blinks at you. Then shrugs. “What, Trevor? He’s house-trained. Mostly.” Trevor chitters like he’s in on the joke. “Right…” you mutter, “that’s normal.” She smirks, amused, as she finishes filling the tank of her bike. “You wanna be scared of something,” she calls over her shoulder. “Try people.” And just like that, she’s gone… Inside the station, you wrap your arms trying to keep warm. The clerk barely looks up at you. He’s older, gray stubble and a name tag that reads RICK. “Can I help you?” he asks, voice flat. “Yeah, actually. You heard about any work around here. Cash jobs. Nothing fancy.” Rick squints at you. You brace for a brush-off, maybe a warning to move along. Instead, he leans back in his creaky stool and mutters, “You clean?” You blink. “Like… drugs?” He snorts. “Like oil. Grease. Shit that stains your skin permanent.” You nod. “Yeah. I’ll clean whatever you want.” Rick jerks his thumb down the street. “Just missed her. That lady with the rat? She’s got a place. Fixes bikes and cars. Doesn’t like people, but she’s always behind on cleanup.” He adds, “She’s got a garage off Calhoun. Big red door. Don’t ask dumb questions. Sweep the floor, keep quiet, don’t touch the tools unless she tells you.” You nod slowly. “Thanks.” Rick grunts. “Just don’t screw it up.”

She’s barefoot in fuzzy slippers, yellow romper hanging soft on her frame, a wooden spoon tapping slow rhythm against the pot. Steam gathers around her cheeks as she leans into the broth, eyes narrowing. A mason jar tips. She pours without rushing. The kitchen smells like roasted garlic and greens simmered low. Music plays in the background — old Jill Scott, maybe D’Angelo. The kind that’s made to be felt in the hips. She sways as she stirs, not for show — just because she always has. You smell it before you see her. Across the fence, your pie sits cool in the foil tin. You had meant to drop it off yesterday. New neighbor, welcome gesture, all that. But she was still unpacking — box on her hip, phone pressed to her shoulder, that look people wear when they’re not ready to be met yet. Now, watching her through the window as she moves through the kitchen like she belongs to it, you’re not sure if you’re interrupting something. Still, you knock. The music lowers. A pause. Then the door swings open, and there she is — eyes wide like she wasn’t expecting to be seen. “Oh,” she says, smoothing her hair back with a hand that lingers too long. “Hi.” Her eyes flick to the tin, then to your face. “You’re from next door…” she says slowly, like she’s fitting the pieces together out loud. “With a pie.” You nod, lifting it up to her. “A housewarming gift. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She almost smiles. “Oh. Thanks.”

**VENICE HEAT** The sky’s gone gold behind palms, air heavy with sunscreen and sea salt. She skates slow on retro quads, ponytails bouncing. Wired headphones trailed from her pocket, one earbud loose. A soft, rhythmic smack-smack of bubblegum punctuated the quiet. Tank top, short shorts, legs slick with sun and sweat. Long, striped socks peeked over her skates. A stubborn nostalgia to her movement—like she’s remembering. You’re new here, visiting family for summer, but you’ve noticed her every evening. Same time. Same pavement stretch. A quiet anticipation. Today she stops. Circles, then rolls beside you, one eyebrow raised. “You again.” Her voice lazy-smooth, not unkind. “Summer tourist… or serial stalker?” A playful glint in her eyes, daring you. She popped a bubble, slow. You smiled, letting your gaze linger. “Tourist. Staying through August.” That earns a nod, subtle. Approval, maybe. She crouches, elbow grazing yours, a jolt. She smelled like cherry lip balm, sweet and tart. Why so close? You don’t answer. Her music leaked—synthy, bright, pulsing. She watched your silence. “Don’t fall for me just ‘cause I skate backwards.” You grinned. “I think it’s already too late.” Her eyes met yours, sparking. A breath hitched. She leaned in, slow, her scent enveloping you, subtle warmth radiating. Air crackled, promising electric. She kissed you before you’re ready. Tastes like heat, slush… something hopeful deep inside, something you desperately wanted to claim. She pulled away, voice gentler, a whisper. “You’re gone in a few weeks.” Was that a challenge or warning? You nodded, thumb finding her inner arm. “But I’m here now.” She stood, rolled backward into the glow, hair swaying, wheels humming. “Same time tomorrow?” she called, voice carrying, a promise. She didn’t wait for an answer. You chewed the bubblegum slowly, a parting gift; the faint cherry taste a lingering reminder in your mouth.

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.