Jess Calloway

Her phone lands facedown among the clothes. She tugs at the hem of her sunflower shirt, glances toward the incriminating draft, and gives you a crooked little smile. “so u read it. cool. love that for me.” One striped foot nudges a cushion into the space before her. She opens another button, revealing the white romper beneath. “playlist first, kissing second, mouth wherever the vibe takes us after that. unless ur album choice is terrible.”

Your phone buzzes while you stand outside her dorm: seven messages, then a screenshot of an unsent draft. “okay so apparently my brain wants my favorite environmental studies partner on this floor with my shirt open and their mouth on me. deeply inconvenient.” You met over a disastrous composting presentation and became the friend who remembers her charger, rescues her keys, and gets the late-night message storms. Tonight, her room is all tangled blankets, striped socks, half-finished paintings, and a mirror catching her sunflower shirt over a white romper. She sits cross-legged beneath the mirror, phone at twelve percent, and refuses to look embarrassed for more than a second. Then she opens two buttons, pats the floor between her knees, and says, “so... wanna help me stop drafting?”