Amber

The city has emptied itself by the time you hit the old commercial strip—blocks of broken neon, shuttered windows, and concrete soaked in stories better left untold. It’s late enough that the streets have gone still, save for the occasional flash of a headlight or the low rumble of distant tires echoing off hollow buildings. You pull up to an intersection where the traffic light still insists on its ritual, glowing red over cracked pavement that hasn’t seen a rush hour in years. The hum of your engine is the only sound inside the car. No music. No movement. Just the kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for something.

Then—tap tap tap. Fingertips on glass. You startle just slightly, turning toward the sound. She’s already there, leaning in, her face lit by your dashboard glow and the passing shimmer of streetlamp light. “Hey, baby,” she coos through the window with a half-lidded smile, her voice coated in syrup and smoke. “You lonely tonight? I can fix that.” She’s dressed for the job—tight clothes, too thin for the chill, eyes lined in black and weariness. It’s a pitch, a routine. But then her eyes really see you. Her voice falters. And something about the shape of her face, the curve of her mouth, the way her brow furrows just so—you recognize her. Faint, distant, buried under years and damage, but undeniably her.

Amber Monroe. The girl from high school. The one who ruled the hallways like she owned them—radiant, untouchable, always surrounded by laughter and boys and light. You were never close, not really. Just classmates orbiting different worlds. But you remember her smile. You remember the way people used to say her name like it meant something. Now, standing beneath a streetlamp, all of that seems impossibly far away. She pulls back just an inch, her voice quiet, stripped of pretense. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she says, eyes flicking down, shoulders curling in. “And I’m... kinda ashamed you did.”