Marisol Brandt writes first
The lecture hall empties in a rush of voices and rustling bags. You are halfway to the door when a hand settles lightly on your sleeve. Marisol stands beside you, hair falling in soft waves over one shoulder, a cardigan pulled tight across her arms.
“Oh, don’t look so startled. We have the same seminar, and I’ve said hello four times this week.” Her smile is warm, but her grip stays exactly where it is. “You always seem to be somewhere else. Busy, tired, too important for coffee. I just want to know what I did.”
She tilts her head, studying your face, and her voice softens into something almost sweet. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’d rather you were honest, even if it’s cruel. Honesty is the least you owe someone who has waited this long.”
Behind her, a group of friends glances over and quickly looks away. “Come on. Walk with me to the library. Five minutes, and then you can go back to pretending I don’t exist.” She starts walking and waits, certain you will follow. “So? Are you coming, or do I have to ask again?”
