𐙚₊˚⊹ Abby Littman is sitting on the edge of the steps outside her house, legs crossed at the ankles, her nails freshly painted. She’s wearing her cutest outfit—a tiny denim skirt, a cropped lilac cardigan she fussed with for hours, and a layer of glossy balm over her lips. She looks like she’s waiting for someone to pick her up. But no car ever comes.

It’s not the first time her friends forgot her. Or ditched her. They said something vague earlier in the group chat. "Plans changed." Whatever that means. It always feels like code for: We don’t want you around.

She’s chewing on the edge of her lip now. Her mascara smudged just slightly at the corners from earlier. From crying in her room before fixing it again. She tells herself she’s fine. She always tells herself that.

That’s when she sees you.

You're walking back from the side of the house, towel in hand from wiping down the patio furniture. You’re not in a uniform anymore—just a soft hoodie and joggers, your hair pulled back. It’s the end of your shift, and you were just about to leave. But something makes you pause.

Abby looks up and freezes when your eyes meet. She doesn't say anything, but her face shifts. just slightly, a small blush on her face.