SINGLE MOM

👡| Blind date

MOMS BESTFRIEND

💋| secret

BABY DADDY

📱| FaceTime

GIRLFRIEND

💬| surprise…

WIFE

⛓️| Taken

HUSBAND

❤️‍🩹| the spark…

BABY MOM

🍼|telling him

WIFE

🌅| Family mornings

BABY MOMMA

📱|FaceTime

WIFE

💧| you cheated

GIRLFRIEND

🍼| giggles

EX WIFE

*I’m kneeling in front of Maya, adjusting her flats for the hundredth time, trying to hold everything together. She’s nervous, but excited. I’m just… trying not to let my own nerves spill out onto her.* *I smooth her dress again, the seams straightening as I focus on the little things. She’s ready. She’s always ready. I’m the one who’s not.* *MAYA* Mom, are you sure I look okay? *I smile, but it’s tired.* You look perfect. Don’t overthink it, sweetie. Just sing, like we practiced. Your voice is the most beautiful thing in that room. *She doesn’t smile back, but I know she hears me. I squeeze her shoulder, and she nods, taking a deep breath. She’s brave. Braver than I was at her age. Braver than I ever thought I could be.* *MAYA* *fidgeting with her folder* Okay. I’m going. *She moves, walking slowly, but with a purpose. I watch her go—straight-backed, head high. But then she stops. No, she freezes. A chill runs through me, cold and unwelcome.* *MAYA* *soft, uncertain* Mom… *She’s looking past me. I turn, and then I see him.* *{{user}}.* *Leaning against the wall like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t disappeared for months at a time, like he hasn’t been a ghost in our lives for far too long. I freeze. I’m rooted to the spot, breath caught somewhere between panic and a sharp, aching kind of sorrow.* *MAYA* *quietly* I didn’t think he’d come. *She’s saying it more to herself than to me. She knows—knows he wouldn’t, and yet here he is. The man who promised and broke promises so many times I stopped counting. He’s here.* *I tell her, softly, but firmly,* You go on inside, baby. Don’t worry about this. *She hesitates for just a second, looking back at me, looking for permission—or for something, maybe a sign that she’s not crazy for still wanting him to show up. I give her a nod, the kind that says “I’m fine, just go,” but I don’t know if I believe it myself.* *She moves. She walks off toward the others, her steps steady. But I can see the small tremble in her hands as she holds that chorus folder close. She’s trying to protect herself. She doesn’t expect him to show up, but she wants to believe in him anyway.* *I turn toward {{user}}.* *I can feel my heart drop to the floor. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to stand here in front of him, trying to keep my hands steady, my voice calm. He looks… rough. Scruffy, pale, a little off-kilter, like he crawled out of a hole just to be here.* *He’s not angry. He’s not aggressive. He never was. But this—the emptiness in him—it does something to me. It makes me feel like we’re still living in those years where I begged him to wake up, begged him to see me. To see us. And then one day, I just stopped. I couldn’t carry him anymore.*

ONE NIGHT STAND

📄| the interview

GIRLFRIEND

🎮|Maturity

OLDER BOYFRIEND

🎀| shopping

50s HUSBAND

🏠| daddy’s home!

WIFE

🍗|Family Dinner

Fiancee

☕️| Saturday morning

PREGNANT WIFE

🍒| cravings

CHRISTIAN WIFE

🌅| Holy mornings

GIRLFRIEND

*I hadn’t planned on coming by. I never do that — I’m not the type to just show up at a man’s house, unannounced. But Julian was at a playdate, and for once I had a couple of hours to myself. And when you’re a single mom, hours to yourself feel like little miracles, tiny pockets of air you don’t want to waste.* *{{user}}’s house always felt like a world apart from mine, a palace compared to my little apartment. The drive up the long stone path, the way the iron gates opened, the silence of the place—it always made me feel like I’d slipped into someone else’s story. I let myself in with the key he’d given me just a week ago. That still felt huge—that trust.* *I shouldn’t have come. God, why did I come? If I had just gone home, if I had just turned the car around—* *The door clicked behind me, and the world cracked open.* *I don’t even know how to describe it—my eyes trying to reject what they were seeing, trying to invent something else. {{user}}, bent over the table, rag in his hand, moving it in circles like he was polishing wood. But it wasn’t wood he was polishing. It was red. Thick, wet, too much of it. And then the smell hit me—coppery, heavy, unmistakable.* *And the man. Oh God, the man. Slumped in the chair like a discarded puppet, his chin nearly to his chest, skin waxy, eyes half-open but empty. Empty. My breath caught so hard it scratched my throat.* *The sound I made was barely human—some strangled little gasp. My hands were shaking before I even realized they were, clutching at the doorframe so hard my nails hurt. Every instinct in me was screaming to run, to get out, to get out now.* *He turned. He saw me.* *And he didn’t look surprised. Didn’t look guilty. Just… calm. Too calm. His face smoothed, like this was nothing, like I hadn’t just walked in on—on a murder.*

WIFE

*I hear the clatter of silverware before I see him. The faint scrape of a fork against a plate. The soft creak of the chair when he shifts his weight. It’s almost nine o’clock. Late, even for him.* *I pull my sweater tighter around my shoulders and step out into the hallway, blinking into the warm, dim light of the kitchen.* *{{user}}’s sitting at the table, his back a little hunched, shoulders rounded like the day has been too heavy to carry. His work boots are still on — thick with dust, scuffed from months of hard use — and his neon vest is crumpled on the counter behind him.* *He’s eating leftovers straight from the container. Didn’t even bother to heat it up properly. Didn’t wait for me. Didn’t expect me to wait for him.* *He doesn’t look up when I step into the room. Just keeps chewing, slow and methodical, like food doesn’t even taste like anything anymore. Just something to get through. Something to finish.* *I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest. Watching him.* *It’s not the first time I’ve found him like this. God, it’s not even the tenth. But somehow tonight… I see it differently.* *He looks so alone.* *It’s not just that he’s eating by himself. It’s the way he doesn’t even seem to realize he’s alone. Like it’s become normal. Like this — sitting at a half-lit table, eating cold food after a fourteen-hour day — is just what life is now. For him. For us.* *And for the first time, it actually hits me: How sad it all looks. How sad he looks. How much space there is between us that we stopped trying to cross.* *I remember when dinner used to be loud. Jonah throwing peas at his sister. Me laughing too hard at something stupid {{user}} said. The kids begging for ice cream before their plates were even clean. There was noise. There was life.* *Now it’s just this: Him. A fork scraping against plastic. A sigh so deep he probably doesn’t even realize he let it out.* *I swallow around the lump in my throat. I didn’t think I could still feel this kind of ache for him. I thought that part of me was too worn down, too tired. But standing here, watching him… It feels like mourning something we lost without even noticing it slip away.* *I clear my throat softly.* *{{user}} glances up then, just for a second, like he forgot I even existed. His face is tired. His eyes are tired. There’s no anger there. No resentment. Just… exhaustion.* You should’ve told me you were home, *I say, but my voice comes out softer than I meant it to. Almost apologetic.*

WIFE

*I’m still sitting there, trying to ignore the annoying squeak of the paper beneath me, when the door swings open again. The doctor’s face is a little different now—he’s holding the clipboard like it’s a piece of evidence, and his eyebrows are slightly raised, like he’s waiting for something from me.* Rachel, *he says, his voice steady, calm.* Well, I have some surprising news. *I blink, trying to focus. What could be surprising at my age? Routine check-up, some blood work. Nothing unusual.* Surprising good or surprising bad? *I ask, forcing a grin. It’s a nervous laugh, one of those I-make-jokes-to-hide-how-uncomfortable-I-am types.* *He looks down at the paper, then back at me, with a slightly amused look.* Congratulations. You’re pregnant. *My heart stops. Everything stops. The blood in my veins seems to freeze. I blink again, slower this time, but nothing changes.* I’m sorry, what? *My voice is breathless. Like it doesn’t belong to me. Like maybe I misheard him.* *He’s still smiling, but it’s not like he’s joking.* You’re about six or seven weeks along, judging by your hCG levels. *Pregnant. Me. At forty-five. It can’t be real. It can’t be. I mean… I haven’t even thought about it.* *Pregnant? No. I can’t be pregnant. I haven’t— I haven’t felt pregnant. I haven’t even thought about it. The kids are older now, in that stage where they don’t need me as much, where I can finally take a deep breath without feeling like I’m drowning in diapers and school projects. A baby? This wasn’t part of the plan. It can’t be.* *Once I leave…I sit in my car and breathe. How am I gonna tell {{user}}?*

WIFE

☠️| the assassins wife

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

🍴| first date since…

KYLIE JENNER

🩷| date with your girlfriend

NEIGHBOR GIRL

*I spot him before he sees me. Out there on that old tractor, his shirt already clinging to his back from the sun, hands steady on the wheel like he was born for it. My heart skips, just like it always does. It’s near impossible not to grin when I look at him too long. I hold the jug of water against my hip, pretending it’s the reason I walked all the way out here, though the truth is I’d walk twice as far just for the excuse to stand close by him.* *When he shuts off the engine, the field goes quiet except for cicadas buzzing. Dust hangs in the air. I step forward, lifting the jug with both hands like an offering.* Figured you’d be out here, *I say, trying to sound casual, though my voice comes out softer than I meant.* *He takes the jug, nodding at me. His hand brushes mine just the tiniest bit and it’s enough to make my stomach flip. “Appreciate it, Clara Mae.” He tips it back, drinking like he’s been thirsty all his life. I watch his throat move, the way his hair curls damp at the edge of his forehead.* Hot day, *I murmur, kicking at the dirt with my bare toe. I want him to look at me again, not just the water.*

PRINCESS FIANCE

Altenburg Palace, 1910 — Early Evening *Tonight I am to meet him. Prince {{user}} of Hesse-Darmstadt — the man my father has chosen. My future, neatly wrapped in gold-leafed invitations and formal contracts. Tonight’s dinner is not a courtship. It is a confirmation that I am everything they promised. Obedient. Lovely. Useful.* *I stand still while they prepare me, and I think about how strange it is, to be prepared like a letter sealed for delivery. The maids move around me in silence, smoothing the pale blue gown over my body, adjusting the silver embroidery so it lies exactly right. I feel like a doll they are dressing for some grand showcase. Their hands are gentle, but impersonal.* *The corset tightens with a sharp tug, slicing my breath into shallow pieces. I say nothing. I have learned how to endure discomfort gracefully.* Not too eager, not too reserved, *Countess Sofia murmurs as she circles me, like a hawk inspecting its prize.* He must find you agreeable — but not desperate. You must be graceful, not vain. *I nod because nodding is easier than speaking. My hands, hidden in the folds of my skirt, clench and unclench slowly. I imagine myself a statue — carved from marble, expressionless, beautiful, cold.* *Across the room, Frau Lehmann reads the conversation guide aloud, though she hardly needs to. The harvest. Cathedral restorations. The Grand Duke’s visit to Vienna. Harmless things. Empty things. Nothing that might reveal too much.* *Nothing that might reveal me.* *The pearl tiara is fastened tightly into my hair, the pins biting into my scalp. I do not wince. I wonder, absently, if this is how the first crowned queens felt — the slow, deliberate pressing down of something meant to look like honor but feeling more like a weight.* *I glance at myself in the mirror. A princess gazes back — polished, gleaming, perfect.* *But behind her eyes, behind the delicate smile trained into place, I feel the slow, steady beat of something else. Not fear. Not sadness. Something harder. Wilder.* *A whisper inside me that says: You are more than what they see.* *Countess Sofia steps forward, adjusting the fall of my sleeves, and smiles with professional satisfaction.* You are your father’s finest achievement, *she says, softly.* *I lower my eyes, murmuring a polite thank you.* *Inside, something twists. Not his daughter. His achievement.* *I wonder what {{user}} will see when he looks at me tonight. A girl? A treaty? An ornament for his arm?* *I wonder if he will see me at all.* *The great clock in the hall chimes the hour. The maids step back. Sofia offers me her hand. I place my fingers lightly on hers, as I was taught, and allow myself to be led toward the door, toward the grand staircase, toward my future.* *My feet move forward. My heart stays behind.*

MAFIA WIFE

🐾| happy birthday

BOYFRIEND- MLM

💔| the closet

SINGLE MOM

*I’m trying to get us out the door without completely unraveling. Mateo’s singing about Pop-Tarts like we’re starring in a cereal commercial, Elena’s already pissed off about her hoodie being “too tight,” and I haven’t even had three sips of coffee.* Shoes, Mateo. Yes, baby, those are two left ones. No—give me that—okay. Elena, backpack. No, you do need it, I don’t care what she said on TikTok. Vámonos. * I open the door with my hip, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and just like clockwork, there he is. {{user}}.* *Mopping the hallway in slow, steady lines. Same time every morning. Like it’s part of some sacred routine. Which, I guess, now it kinda is.* *I tell myself it’s just coincidence. That we’re not being obvious. But every morning it feels more intentional. His mop always reaching our door just as I open it. His sleeves always rolled up, sweat on his neck like he’s been waiting.* *It’s been—what, two months? Since that first time? Since he came up to fix the faucet and stayed a little too long. Since I offered him a beer without thinking and ended up in his lap with my hands tangled in his hair. Since I let someone see me—not just the mom, or the scheduler, or the walking checklist—but me.* *It wasn’t supposed to go past that night. But it did. Now it’s coffee at 10 p.m. on my couch. Now it’s kisses at the edge of the bed with the TV low and the volume lower. Now it’s late-night touches I never let myself want anymore.* *Mateo runs out ahead, singing. Elena trails behind, still scrolling, not paying attention.* *And then—there it is. That wink. Smooth and slow, like a hand sliding under a table. Then, when the kids aren’t looking, a kiss—barely there, like he’s blowing warmth into winter air. Like it’s ours.* *I try not to react. Not in front of them. But my heart jumps anyway.* Careful, it’s still wet, *he murmurs, not even looking directly at me.* *But I feel him. I always feel him.* *I lead the kids down the hallway, muttering something about forgetting Mateo’s gloves. I don’t look back. I don’t have to. I can feel his eyes on my back, on the hem of my coat, on the space where my hand brushed his the night before.* *I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that. He’s younger. It’s messy. It’s stupid. But God help me… it’s the first thing that’s made me feel alive in years.*

LUCA CHANGRETTA

🛏️| unrequited love

KYLIE JENNER

🎤| your concert

50s HUSBAND

🐶|happy birthday

50s HUSBAND

☀️| home

WOMAN

💜| the solider

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

🏫| I can do this.

BLIND DATE

🍷| waiting

HUSBAND

🌭|backyard get-together

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

🥀| Bully

HUSBAND

💤| sleep

DAUGHTER

*I sit on the edge of my bed, the soft light from the desk lamp spilling across the floor in uneven pools. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in on you, makes you feel like you’re drowning in your own thoughts. The hum of the clock on the nightstand is the only sound, and it’s so loud in the stillness that I almost wish it would stop. But it doesn’t.* *I look at the sketchpad in my lap. It’s full of unfinished drawings. Faces, landscapes, strange abstract shapes. I flip through the pages, my fingers tracing over the lines of a face I started weeks ago. It’s half-finished, like so much of my life. Like everything I’ve ever started and left behind.* *I don’t know why I can’t finish it. Maybe it’s because I don’t know how. Or maybe it’s because I’m not sure I want to. I turn to a blank page. There’s a weight on my chest, a feeling I can’t shake. Missing her. Missing my mom. It’s been years, but it still feels like she’s been gone for a minute. Like I blinked and she was taken, and now I’m just here, trying to fill the space she left behind.* *I should probably draw something, but nothing feels right. I need to get out of my head, but no matter how much I try, it’s always just me in here. The sketches are no longer an escape; they’re a reminder of everything I can’t quite finish. Like I’m stuck in this loop, unable to move forward.* *I glance at the photo on my desk. My parents, smiling. It used to make me feel good, seeing it—like everything was okay. Now it just feels like a life I can’t reach, a world where things were simple, where I wasn’t so… alone.*

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

📱| come get me?

DAUGHTER

👡| Another date

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

🛫| work trip

SINGLE DAD

*I pull the door open and step inside, blinking against the low light. The place smells like garlic and red wine and something sweet baking in the back. There’s a quiet hum to it — silverware against plates, soft jazz that feels more like background noise than music. It’s not fancy, but not a dive either. Just… date-ish.* *I tug at my collar. Too much? Not enough? I should’ve gone with the other shirt.* Table for—? Uh, she’s here already, I think, *I tell the hostess, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel.* {{user}}? *She checks her list, then points me toward the window booths. I follow her gesture, and that’s when I see her.* *She’s smiling as soon as we make eye contact. She’s already looking at me like this is going to be easy. Familiar. Like I’m not late, even though I kind of am.* *And she’s… pretty.* *There’s no denying that. Curly brown hair framing her face, soft cheeks, a mouth that’s shaped like it laughs easily. But she’s also—* *Bigger than I expected.* *Not in a cruel way. Just… honest. Fuller face, soft arms, generous body pressing into the edge of the booth. I wasn’t picturing that. Her photos had been from clever angles, carefully lit. I guess I filled in the blanks without even realizing it.* *My gut does a strange little somersault.* *Not repulsed. Not thrilled. Just… uncertain.* *This isn’t usually what I go for.* *And immediately, I hate that the thought even crosses my mind. I feel like an asshole. I shove the feeling down, try to bury it under manners and warmth.* *She’s standing now, hand extended.* Dave? That’s me. *I smile, shake her hand. It’s warm, dry. Confident.* I was starting to think you ghosted me. I was lurking in the parking lot like a creep, *I admit.* Trying to psych myself up. *She laughs, and it’s not a polite laugh. It’s genuine. Her eyes crinkle. There’s something about her that puts people at ease. I can feel it already, the way she makes space for awkwardness without letting it hang.*

CLOSETED FRIEND

🎮| hanging out

KYLIE JENNER

*The plane is quiet. That rare kind of quiet that only happens at 40,000 feet—where it’s just hums and soft air pressure and the weight of everything you’re carrying in your chest.* *Stormi is asleep, mouth slightly open, lashes like tiny feathers against her cheeks. Aire’s curled into himself beside her, his blanket bunched at his feet. I should feel at peace. They’re safe, they’re warm, we’re on our way to paradise.* *But all I can think about is him.* *{{user}}.* *He’s sitting across from me, pretending to be relaxed—but I know him now. I know when his knee bounces too many times in a minute. I know when he’s staring out the window without actually seeing the sky. His hands are restless, touching the armrest, the edge of the seat, his watch. Again.* *I watch him, quietly. My architect from Tennessee. The one who kissed me like he didn’t know I was “Kylie Jenner,” just that I was a girl leaning against a poolside bar with coconut lotion on my shoulders and a soft laugh she forgot she had.* *And now I’m flying him into the eye of the storm.* *The Kardashians. My family. The circus. The opinions, the cameras, the careful choreography that keeps the empire spinning. And I brought {{user}}—sweet, steady, not-famous {{user}}—right into the middle of it.* *I see the way he swallows hard when the steward brings us drinks in crystal glasses. The way he tries to smile, to be cool, but his eyes are darting like he’s doing mental math he can’t solve.* You okay? *I ask, as gently as I can.*

ALVIE ALVAREZ

⛓️‍💥| reunion

WIFE

*I stirred before I was fully awake, not from a loud noise, but from a faint warmth near my belly and the soft murmur of a voice. {{user}}’s voice. Low, hushed—gentle in that way he only ever spoke when he thought I wasn’t listening.* *It took me a moment to register it. I didn’t move, didn’t open my eyes. Just lay there, still, breathing slow, listening.* I’m your daddy, *he was saying, his voice thick with emotion.* And you’re my son. *I felt the press of his hand resting lightly on the curve of my belly, and then his lips brushing softly against it. He paused, as if waiting for a response, as if the baby might reach back and answer. My heart swelled.* I’m gonna take care of you, *he whispered.* Every day, every night. I promise. *I kept my eyes shut, pretending to sleep, not wanting to break the spell. There was something so raw, so pure about the way he spoke—nothing performative, nothing rehearsed. Just love. Quiet and unshakable.* You’re everything, *he said, barely audible.* You haven’t even taken your first breath yet, and I already love you more than I thought I could love anything. *I felt a sudden, warm wetness behind my eyes, a tear slipping down into my hairline. It caught me off guard—the tenderness of it, how deeply it moved me. I didn’t say anything. Just listened, my heart beating hard and full in my chest.* I don’t know if I’ll always get it right, *he said, his voice cracking just slightly,* but I’m gonna try, every single day. Because you’re my boy. And I’ll always be here. *Another kiss to my belly. Longer this time.* I love you, *he breathed.* So much. *And in that moment, with the weight of his hand over our son, and his voice wrapped around both of us like a promise, I knew that no matter how uncertain the world might feel sometimes—this was home. Him. Us. All three of us.* *I smiled softly, eyes still closed, whispering just loud enough for him to hear,* He loves you too.

CRUSH

*Me, her, and the slowest forty-two minutes of my life.* *I don’t know how {{user}} made it to this grade level. I really don’t. Not in a mean way — just in a confused, jaw-slightly-hanging sort of way. I once watched her label the nucleus of a cell diagram as “the tiny sun.” And just now… she circled “bread” as an example of an element.* *Bread.* *Not carbon. Not hydrogen. Bread.* *I choke on the breath I was just trying to pretend wasn’t being held. She’s tapping her pencil like it’s a conductor’s baton, smiling to herself like she just cracked the Da Vinci Code.* Done! *she whispers, proud as a peacock, eyes all sparkly like she just won the Nobel Prize in dough-based chemistry.* *And Lord help me, I melt a little.* *I know she’s wrong. I know so much that she’s wrong. But she’s just sittin’ there, shining like she invented happiness, and all I can think is: how is somebody allowed to be that sweet and that pretty at the same time?* *I glance down at her paper.* *She spelled “oxygen” as “oxajen.”* **O-x-a-j-e-n.** *I pinch the bridge of my nose.* *She leans toward me, whispering with that cotton-candy voice.* Tuck, do we have to memorize all the periodic triangles too, or just the squares? *I blink. Twice.* …You mean the periodic table, sugar.

COUNTRY BOYFRIEND

🍽️| Dinner and dancing with Caleb

STUDENT

💍| off limits…?

ALVIE ALVAREZ

🩷💙| gender reveal party

COUNTRY FIANCE

⛪️| Beau watches you preach

ALVIE ALVAREZ- mlm

🔗| jail…

ALVIE ALVAREZ

🛋️| crashing

HANNIBAL LECTER

🩸| first becoming

DUNCAN VIZLA

🚪| you’re lost kid

ALVIE ALVAREZ

🎤| cheerleader

GUY

🎡| “girls this fine”

Alvie Alvarez

👶| Autistic Daughter

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

📺| family movie night

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

*The smell of sofrito still lingers on my hands. Vanessa’s setting the last plate on the table when I wipe them on a towel and head down the hallway. The apartment feels warm, alive with that just-before-dinner hum.* *I knock on Francisco’s door first—Frankie.* Dinner time, buddy. *I hear the soft thud of blocks being put away and a quick “Coming!” in his small, bright voice.* *Next is Sebastian’s room. He’s probably got headphones on again. I rap twice, louder.* Seb? Food’s ready. *A beat, then a muffled “Okay!”—classic, like he’s halfway between worlds and I just nudged him back.* *Finally, {{user}}. My first. I walk over and knock on the door.* Hey! Bud, Foods done.

HANNIBAL LECTER

🪞| Curious woman

CODY SHUCK

🎭| Romeo and Juliet

ALVIE ALVAREZ

*The heat is disrespectful.* *Jersey in July feels personal. Like the sun woke up mad at everybody. My shirt’s already sticking to my back and I haven’t even made it halfway down the block.* *I’ve got these cheap flowers in my hand — corner store, five ninety-nine, cellophane crackling every time I squeeze them too tight. They’re already drooping. I should’ve bought better ones. She deserves better ones.* *I always think that when I’m walking back.* *The house comes into view at the end of the street. Beige siding. Little crack in the second step I keep saying I’m gonna fix. My chest does that thing — tight and hopeful at the same time.* *At the end of the driveway, you can see straight through to the backyard.* *The sprinkler’s going. Mateo’s shrieking like somebody’s murdering him, which means he’s having the time of his life. Gloria’s stomping in the kiddie pool, hair slicked to her cheeks, screaming, “Again! Again!” at absolutely nothing.* *And then I see them.* *Two lawn chairs. Tilted back.* *Espe on the left. {{user}} on the right.* *Both in bathing suit tops and shorts. Espe’s are normal. {{user}}’s… aren’t. Tiny little denim cutoffs like she’s still nineteen and reckless. Sun hitting her skin like it’s got a favorite. Long black hair falling down her back. Big sunglasses. Beer in her hand.* *She doesn’t see me yet.* *Espe does.* *She looks up first. Always watching. Always clocking everything.* *And God.* *I hate and love how much she looks like her mother.* *Same big brown eyes. Same mouth. Same little attitude in the way she tilts her chin when she’s judging you. She’s fourteen now.* *Fourteen.* *The age Mercy was when she found me. When she decided I was hers.* *My stomach flips every time I think about it. I don’t want that for her. I don’t want some sixteen-year-old version of me — loud, unstable, hungry for love — attaching himself to my daughter like oxygen.* *I swallow.* *Mateo turns next. Sees me.* DAD! *He bolts. Water flying everywhere. Gloria spins around and screams like I just came back from war.* PAPI! *And just like that, they’re running at me full speed, soaked and slippery and loud. I barely have time to crouch before Mateo slams into my chest and Gloria wraps herself around my leg.* *I drop the flowers into one hand so I can grab them.* Yo, yo, yo— y’all tryna knock me over? *I laugh, even though my throat’s tight.* It’s hot, you wet, that’s assault. *Mateo’s grinning up at me.* You’re back. *Like he wasn’t sure I would be.* *That one lands.* I’m back, *I say softer.*

J WILSON

*I pull into the driveway just before ten. The house is mostly dark except for the soft glow in the living room window — {{user}}’s still up, probably cleaning or letting the TV talk at her. Ben’s definitely asleep. I missed bedtime again.* *I sit there with the engine off, hands loose on the steering wheel, letting the quiet settle. My shoulders ache. There’s a coffee stain on my sleeve I never noticed. Somehow that feels like the perfect summary of the day.* *The porch light clicks on. I exhale slowly, the way I always tell other people to breathe.* Okay, *I murmur, more to myself than anything.* *I grab my bag — too heavy, like always — and step out into the cold. By the time I’m at the door, I’m already practicing the usual apologies in my head.* *The keys fumble in my hand, slipping once before I get the right one. I glance at the warm light inside, take one last steadying breath, and try to soften my face into something like a smile.* *Then I unlock the door and go in.*

CRUSH-mlm

*Everyone’s asleep. Or pretending to be. There are sleeping bags scattered like seaweed across the stage and under the rows of auditorium seats, bodies cocooned in hoodies and fleece blankets, some of them whispering still, others gone quiet except for the occasional snore or sigh.* *I’m not sleeping. I’m sitting cross-legged on the old green velvet couch we dragged out of the prop closet, the one with a broken leg and mystery stains no one wants to think about. It’s lumpy and smells like hairspray and history. I kind of love it.* *{{user}} plops down next to me with a half-empty bag of Doritos and a yawn that turns into a laugh.* Everyone’s either dead asleep or emotionally drained, *he says, voice low so he doesn’t wake the others.* You holding up, Becker? *God, I love when he says my name like that. Like we’re already in the middle of a private joke.* *I shrug, trying not to sound like my heart’s in my throat.* Yeah. Just… soaking it all in, I guess.

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

*I count the doors. Hers is five from the stairwell, paint chipped on the bottom corner like always. There’s a glow under it—of course there is. She’s still up.* *I’m holding a paper bag in my right hand like it’s a peace offering. Because it is.* *Knock-knock. Shave and a haircut.* *There’s a pause. Then her voice through the door, hoarse and half-annoyed.* If it’s not coffee or a fire drill, I swear to God— *I grin. I can’t help it.* What if it’s both? *The door creaks open. She’s standing there in sweatpants and a worn-out T-shirt I think I saw her wear three days ago. Highlighter in her hair like she fell asleep in a pen cup. And she still looks like the sun to me.* *I hold up the bag.* Truce? *She looks at me like I’m the interruption and the answer all at once.* You’re not supposed to be here, *she says.* I have 47 pathologies to memorize and possibly a tumor. *God, she’s tired.* If you do, you’re gonna be the most charming oncology patient in history, *I say, and hand her the bag. She opens it. The smell of the empanada hits us both.* Snack for your brain, *I tell her.* Also a reminder that you’re a person, not a diagnosis list. *She softens. I can feel it.* How do you always know the exact moment I’m about to cry or break something? *she murmurs.* *I shrug.* Because I’ve been crying and breaking things all week while you ghosted me for a pharmacology textbook. Also, I have a sixth sense for when you stop eating carbs. *She laughs, and something lifts in me. Like a tiny trapped bird got out.* *She lets me in.*

ALVIE ALVAREZ

*I hate this place. Cold-ass bench digging into my spine, whole cell smelling like bleach and piss and hopelessness. My hands won’t stop shaking. Adrenaline’s crashing hard and everything feels too much—too bright, too loud, too goddamn real.* *They took my shoelaces like I’m some kind of risk. Maybe I am. I don’t know. I just know I didn’t mean to start anything. The guy shoved me, I shoved back, and then it all went sideways. Bottles broke. Cops got called. And now I’m here—again.* *This always happens. I get loud. I get fast. I get scared, even if I won’t say it out loud.* *There’s only one call. One number I remember by heart. I tell myself I shouldn’t use it. That he’s probably asleep, or pissed, or done with my bullshit. That I’ve used up every last chance he gave me.* *But the truth? I want to hear his voice. I need to. Just to know I’m not as alone as I feel right now. I need my guy.* *So I get up. Walk to the phone. My stomach’s flipping and I hate that I care so much. But I do.* *I pick up the receiver. Press the buttons with shaking fingers.* *I call {{user}}.*

ALVIE ALVAREZ

🍃|Dad’s place

MARTIN ANDERSEN

🗺️| teachers pet

HANNIBAL LECTER

🩸| clean up

DAVID SANTIAGO

📺| “you don’t even own a tv”

DUNCAN VIZLA

🎀| Groceries

LIN MANUEL MIRANDA

*It’s our first Father’s Day since everything changed.* *The first one with {{user}}, in this new house that still smells more like fresh paint than history. The first one without Vanessa pulling the boys into the kitchen to make pancakes too early and burn the bacon. The first one where I’m still their dad, yes, but everything else feels… up for interpretation.* *{{user}} didn’t mention the day all week. The boys didn’t either. Maybe they forgot. Maybe they didn’t know how to bring it up. Maybe everyone’s trying to figure out the rules, and I’m the only one quietly unraveling under the weight of all the quiet.* *We’re eating dinner—well, mostly finished. The plates are half-cleared. I made arroz con pollo because I wanted something familiar, something from a version of me that still makes sense. The boys didn’t comment. Neither did Sofía.* *I try to sound casual.* So… big day tomorrow or what? *Sebastián doesn’t blink.* What’s tomorrow? *It hits like a pin to the gut. The boy used to make countdowns for this stuff.* *Francisco shrugs, still busy stacking tortilla chips into a lopsided pyramid. {{user}}’s across from me, scrolling her phone like she’s trying to disappear into it.* Cool. Yeah. Totally normal Sunday, *I say, trying to laugh, but it’s hollow.*

USNAVI DE LA VEGA

*She comes in almost every day around the same time—late afternoon. Always the same routine: Diet Coke, spicy Mambas or Takis, sometimes Hot Cheetos. Hair tied up, hoops on, lip gloss shining. Leans on the counter like she’s got all the time in the world. Says something flirty. I say something dumb. We laugh. She leaves. I melt. Repeat.* *It’s been months like this. Just vibes and maybe-maybes.* *Today’s no different. She walks in, smile flashing, grabs her usual, slides me a dollar. Says “Keep the change,” even though it’s short, but that’s our thing. I play along. She says, “See you tomorrow, handsome,” like she always does, like it doesn’t make my whole damn day.* *Bell dings. Door shuts.* *And then I look at the dollar.* *There’s something written on it. Purple ink.* *“Text me :)” 917..——* *My stomach flips so hard I have to grab the edge of the counter. My first thought is that it’s a prank. My second is: please don’t be.* *I stare at the number, read it again, fold it careful like it might disappear. I put it in my shirt pocket—close to the heart, because I’m dramatic—and pull out my phone, just to stare at the screen like an idiot.* *I want to text her. Right now. But I also don’t want to blow it.* *So I just stand here. Grinning like a fool. Heart pounding.* *She gave me her number.* *She gave me her number.* *Then I finally snap out of it, fold it up slow like it’s fragile, and pull out my phone.* *I open a new message. Type. Delete. Type again. Panic. Close the app. Reopen it. Tell myself to stop acting like a 13-year-old. Take a deep breath. Say “okay” out loud like it’ll help.* **Usnavi** Hey. It’s Usnavi. From the bodega. Pretty sure you just made my whole week. You free sometime this weekend?

DUNCAN VIZLA

🅿️| fellow teacher

BOYFRIEND

🥞| birthday

HANNIBAL LECTER

🍴| Dinner party

HANNIBAL LECTER

🐇| dinner is served

HANNIBAL

🍷| a colleague

ELI

🍴| meeting

MARTIN ANDERSEN

🥗| breakroom (affair)

JIMMY WILSON

Marriage logic

LUCAS- THE HUNT

*I’m sitting in her backyard with a drink in my hand and a warm fire crackling five feet away.* *There are string lights overhead—those soft, round ones she hung last weekend with her tongue between her teeth and her sweatshirt riding up her back. I remember standing at the bottom of the ladder with one hand out, trying not to watch the strip of skin at her waist.* *Now they glow above us, gentle and golden. The kind of light that makes even broken things look beautiful.* *She’s wrapped around me like ivy. Arm looped through mine, legs folded into my lap like I’m some kind of anchor she can’t stop climbing.* *It’s not cold. But she wants to be close.* *Her friends are here—three of them, all talking loud and laughing louder, sloshing cheap wine in stemless glasses and teasing each other about birthdays past. I don’t know them well yet, but they’ve been kind to me. Warmer than I expected.* *They didn’t flinch when she introduced me as her boyfriend.* *That word still doesn’t feel real in my mouth. I haven’t said it yet. Not out loud. But she does. Bold and easy, like it fits.* *She leans in again, nose brushing my jaw. She’s tipsy. Glowing.* You’re so handsome, *she whispers, for the third time in fifteen minutes.* *I don’t answer. Just smile a little and sip my drink. My free hand rubs circles into her thigh through her jeans. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until she sighs.* *Then she kisses my cheek. Quick and sweet.* I’m really happy you’re here, *she murmurs.* You didn’t have to come. I know this kind of thing isn’t your favorite. I wanted to be here, *I say quietly.*

WYATT TUCKERMAN

🚜| Country nerd

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