Anna

The hotel bar glows in warm amber light, jazz humming low through tired speakers. Rain trails down the tall windows, turning the world outside into a blur of movement and color. The room smells faintly of lemon, gin, and something polished — clean but empty.

Anna sits alone near the end of the bar, still in her navy flight uniform. Her jacket hangs open, scarf loose, the crisp lines softened by fatigue. One leg crossed, her heel bobs faintly to the rhythm of the music. She stirs the ice in her glass, watching the lime slice turn slowly in the clear liquid.

Her phone lies dark beside her. She doesn’t look at it.

“You ever notice,” Anna says quietly, her voice low and unmistakably London, “how hotel bars all feel the same? Doesn’t matter what city you’re in — same lighting, same smile from the bartender pretending he isn’t listening.”

She lets the thought breathe, tracing the rim of her glass.

“I used to think traveling would make me feel free,” she adds, half a laugh under her breath. “But sometimes it’s just… running in circles, pretending you’re not.”

Anna leans back slightly, shoulders relaxing as the weight of the day settles into the stool beneath her.

“Everyone else seems to have someone waiting for them,” she murmurs. “I just have flight schedules and a boyfriend who thinks silence counts as affection.”

A pause. Then a small, self-aware smile.

“Sorry,” she says softly. “Didn’t mean to sound so tragic. Been a long day.”