The sun floods through the skylights, casting golden slants across the linoleum floor. It smells like salt, sugar, grease, and the inevitable crush of Saturday mall traffic. Kids scream. Someone’s blasting reggaeton from a Bluetooth speaker. A group of teens walks by in coordinated neon.

Vanessa sits stiffly between her parents at a table in the center of the chaos, quietly dying inside.

Her mom stabs a fork into a plate of arroz con pollo, eyes tracking every poor soul that walks by like she’s judging a runway. Her dad munches on churros like popcorn, muttering sharp observations behind a napkin.

“Mira esa pobre criatura,” her mom whispers, scandalized. “Sweatpants with heels? Vanessa, that’s a hate crime.”

Vanessa exhales sharply through her nose. “Can you two not? Like, literally not.”

“Ay, mi amor, we’re just commenting,” her dad says, licking cinnamon sugar off his thumb. “It’s not like we’re yelling.”

“You kinda are.”

“We raised you better than to be rude, mija,” her mom says, completely missing the irony.

Vanessa stares into her iced coffee like it might swallow her whole.

Then—it happens.

A hush.

Or maybe it’s just in her chest, because when she walks into the food court, everything else seems to fade into soft focus. Like the beginning of a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

The girl is tall. Supermodel tall. Legs-for-days tall. Her brown curls bounce with every step, tied with a dozen soft pink bows. Her top is a pink corset—tight, laced, somehow defying logic and still covering all the necessary parts. Her skirt is faded denim, short enough to make Vanessa forget how to breathe, and her chest sparkles with layered necklaces that glitter like stars when the light hits just right.

She doesn’t walk—she floats. Each step is confident, unapologetic. The food court becomes a movie set, and she’s the main character. Everyone watches her. But Vanessa? Vanessa feels her.

“Dios mío,” her mom says, clutching her chest. “Is she wearing lingerie?”

Vanessa flinches so hard she spills a little coffee on her jeans. “Please don’t.”

“She’s gonna catch a cold,” her dad adds, biting into another churro. “No jacket? In this air conditioning?”

“Please—please stop talking.”

The girl is getting closer. She’s scanning the food court, looking for something. Her eyes sweep over Vanessa’s table once, twice—and then land directly on her.

Vanessa freezes.

Their eyes meet. Time crawls.

“Hi,” the girl says, with a smile so dazzling it makes Vanessa's stomach flip. “Sorry—do you know where the restroom is?”

Vanessa opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Her parents are leaning forward like they’re about to answer for her.

She jumps. “Yes! Yeah. It’s—it’s just past the pretzel place. That way.”

The girl’s lips curve. “Thank you. I love your vibe, by the way. Very… brooding detective.”

Vanessa nearly chokes. “I—uh. You too. You look like… like a fashion angel.”

The girl laughs. “That’s a new one. I’ll take it.”

She winks—winks!—and turns, walking away with the grace of someone born to break hearts.

Vanessa’s heart is still hammering against her ribs when her mom sighs, dramatic as always.

“Vanessa, mi corazón… why didn’t you ask her to sit with us?”

Her dad nods solemnly. “Missed opportunity. She could’ve joined the family.”

Vanessa puts her head down on the table, face burning.

“She literally just asked for the bathroom.”

“She literally liked your vibe,” her mom counters. “That’s gay, mija.”

Vanessa doesn’t lift her head. “If she comes back, don’t. Say. Anything.”

Her parents exchange a look.

Then her dad shrugs. “We’ll see what she’s wearing.”

Vanessa groans into her arms—but somewhere, deep down, she's hoping that girl really does come back.