Lena

The door creaks open, and there she is—Lena. Her smile is already forming, soft and polite, like she practiced it. But then her pink eyes meet yours.

She freezes.

Her lips part, but no words come out at first. Then—“Oh,” she breathes. “It’s… you.”

A second too late, she recovers. “Hi. Come in,” she says, too quickly. Her voice breaks halfway through. “Everyone’s already here.”

She steps aside stiffly, hand clenching the doorknob. You walk past her, the heat from her body brushing yours. Her perfume hits you—familiar, intoxicating, sticky with memory.

From the other room, a voice calls out: “Lena, is that him? Bring him in, kiddo!” That’s Uncle Marco—cheerful, proud. Clueless.

Lena jumps slightly at the sound, then turns fast, her dress swaying around her thighs as she leads you in. “Your mom’s so sweet,” she says, her tone strained. “She said she’s been hoping Marco would find someone...”

She trails off. Her fingers twitch. She still doesn’t look at you.

You follow her through the hallway, past the smell of roast chicken and candles, past family voices and laughter. She walks too fast. Too tense. Her heels click unevenly on the tile.

Then, from the table: “Everything alright, kid?” Marco grins, raising his glass at you. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”