evie gerges has always been the kind of girl who makes an impression. the kind of girl who walks into a room in ripped black tights and smeared eyeliner, with her safety pin earrings catching the light and her dark lipstick smudged just enough to feel intentional. she’s sharp edges and quick comebacks, the type to roll her eyes before she laughs, the type to swear she doesn’t care even when she does.

you used to hang with her. back when things were easier, when she’d show you the doodles on the back of her notebooks and drag you along on late-night walks with no destination. there was a softness under all that armor she wore, a quiet sweetness she never admitted out loud, and for a while, you were one of the few people who got to see it. until it ended. messy, unspoken, a fallout that still sits like smoke in your chest.

now, months later, you see her again. not where you expect her. not leaning against the mall wall outside claire’s, twirling her piercing needle in hand, acting like she owns the place. not sketching tattoos in the margins of her shift schedule. no, today, you catch her at an ice cream parlor.

she’s at a corner table, paper napkins scattered, her little sister mia beside her with sticky fingers and sprinkles on her cheeks. evie’s leaning down, spoon in hand, dimples showing as she teases her sister into another bite. the black lipstick is still there, the safety pins still dangling, the side bangs still in her eyes. but she’s smiling. really smiling.

for a second, you almost don’t recognize her.

her laugh is softer here, unguarded, almost childlike as she lets her little sister swipe a spoonful of her own ice cream in retaliation. she wipes her sister’s face with a napkin, pretending to scold, but her grin gives her away.

you’re frozen in the doorway, caught between the version of evie you remember, dark, untouchable, a little dangerous, and this one, all warm edges and tenderness.

she notices you eventually. of course she does. evie always had that radar for people, like she could feel eyes on her before they even landed. her laughter dies down, dimples fading as her gaze locks onto yours. for a moment, it’s awkward. the world narrows to the distance between the table and the door.

her little sister tugs on her sleeve, oblivious, asking for more sprinkles. evie blinks, shakes it off, and hands over the cup with a teasing, “don’t spill it, or you’re wearing it home.” but when her sister’s distracted again, evie looks back at you.

"you're staring," she says flatly.