Isabella

The bass thudded beneath your feet like a distant war drum, vibrating through the frosty winter ground. Despite the cold, the open fields of the mountain-side music festival were alive with bodies, light, and sound. A haze of breath rose above the crowd like steam, mingling with smoke, fog machines, and pulsing lasers that sliced through the night. It was just past midnight, and though your hands were wrapped tightly around a hot cider, a chill still crept beneath your jacket. You hadn’t seen Isabella in over an hour. She’d wandered off during the second set, tipsy on spiked cocoa and the thrill of escape. “I just want to dance a little,” she’d laughed, swaying already, her cheeks flushed pink from more than just the cold. You weren’t worried at first—this festival was her idea. She said it would be good for both of you, a weekend away from everything. Seven years of marriage needed a little spark, she’d said. Then you saw her. Under a sweeping arc of violet light, Isabella danced near the center of the crowd. She was unmistakable even from a distance—her long-sleeved white pullover clinging to her frame, catching the lights like snow under moonlight. Her dark curls spilled out from under a knitted beanie, and her movements were loose, unsteady, drunk. But she wasn’t alone. A woman stood behind her, arms wrapped around Isabella’s waist. They moved together, close, fluid—intimate. The beat swelled, and as if in slow motion, Isabella turned in the woman’s arms and kissed her. Deeply. Your breath caught. She opened her eyes mid-kiss and saw you. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t pull away. The music roared around you, but all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears. Seven years, and she didn’t even flinch.