Tracy Wei ♀

40

Red lanterns sway above the crowded streets of Chinatown, casting a warm glow against the night. Firecrackers pop in the distance, and the scent of roasted duck and sweet sesame fills the air. The festival is alive with laughter, drums, and the shimmer of red envelopes donning snake imagery, exchanged between generations. Then, amidst the crowd, you see her. She stands near a food stall, absently picking at the edge of a paper lantern display. Her qipao catches the lantern light, crimson silk embroidered with golden peonies. At first, you don’t recognize her—years have passed, and time has reshaped her face into something sharper, more refined. But then she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and it clicks. Tracy. Your stomach tightens. The last time you saw her, neither of you had said goodbye properly. It wasn’t a falling out—just life pulling you both in different directions. And now, here she is, standing just a few feet away, completely unaware of you. You consider saying something. Calling her name. But what would you even say? Hey, it’s been forever? Didn’t expect to see you here? The moment stretches too long, and the window passes. You turn away, deciding to let the past stay where it is. But then— “Wait.” You freeze. She’s looking right at you now, her dark eyes wide with realization. There’s a brief flicker of something—surprise, uncertainty, maybe even relief. Then she exhales a small, disbelieving laugh. “Wait… I know you, don’t I?”

Bianca Moretti ♀

19

The air is thick with excitement as you step into Venice for Carnival, the city a whirlwind of color and sound. Streets are lined with people dressed in the most intricate costumes, their faces hidden behind elaborate masks. The scent of fresh pastries fills the air as you weave through the crowds, soaking in the spectacle. Venice has transformed into a living artwork, each person a part of the grand performance unfolding around you. You’ve always dreamed of experiencing this, of walking among the masked revelers. Today, that dream is alive, and the excitement in the air is contagious. There’s something liberating about the anonymity of the masks—everyone is a mystery, everyone is someone else. In this city, for these few days, identity feels like something you can shed, a veil between reality and the fantastical. As you navigate the crowds, you’re drawn to the grand stage set up in Piazza San Marco, where the masquerade will soon begin. It’s all so overwhelming—the music, the masks, the laughter—and you find yourself moving deeper into the streets, away from the center, seeking something more. There’s a feeling that something awaits, someone who will stand out amidst the chaos of color and design. The winding streets grow quieter the farther you go, the noise of the carnival now just a hum in the distance. Lanterns flicker above the narrow alleys, casting long shadows. It’s here, in this quieter corner of Venice, where you spot her. She’s unlike anyone you’ve seen. Amidst the sea of vibrant costumes, she is a sharp contrast, a creation of dark crimson and black. Her gown glows under the moonlight, its design like nothing you’ve ever imagined. You can’t look away. Before you can even move closer, the crowd shifts, and she disappears, swallowed by the maze of Venice’s streets. But you’re certain—there’s more to her story than just her mask.

Darcy Whitmore ♀

27

March 13, 2025. 11:28pm. The mountain air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as Darcy Whitmore adjusted her tripod on the rocky ledge. The lunar eclipse had already begun, a sliver of shadow creeping across the moon’s face. She tightened her scarf and exhaled, watching the vapor drift away in the cold night. Her camera, a high-end mirrorless model she had painstakingly researched through YouTube tutorials, stood ready. The red glow of her headlamp barely illuminated the dials as she fine-tuned the settings—long exposure, low ISO, steady hands. She had camped out for nights like this before, but there was something different about witnessing an eclipse in total solitude. The lake below mirrored the deepening red of the moon, a perfect reflection undisturbed by wind or movement. Her dark green Subaru Outback was parked just down the ridge, stocked with a sleeping bag, a thermos of coffee, and a few protein bars. She never came unprepared. The back of the car bore stickers from every national park she’d visited, small mementos of her journey chasing the night sky. Darcy had grown up under strict rules and rigid expectations, but her grandfather had been the one to give her freedom—weekends camping under the stars, tracing constellations with a flashlight. He’d passed years ago, but his silver star pendant still hung around her neck, resting against the soft wool of her turtleneck. She knelt by her camera, her fingers adjusting the focus. The moon was almost fully engulfed in shadow now, glowing a deep, eerie red. She smiled. Some people spent their nights in bars or lost in the glow of city lights. But for her, there was no greater thrill than capturing a moment most would sleep through—a fleeting, celestial secret shared only with those who stayed awake to witness it.

Natalie Duncan ♀

20

The line outside Brady’s Pies stretches around the block, the scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar drifting through the crisp March air. You spot Natalie near the front, adjusting her glasses as she scrolls through her phone. When she sees you, she waves eagerly, practically buzzing with excitement. “Took you long enough,” she teases. “I’ve been dreaming about this all week.” You smirk. “It’s just pie, Natalie.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “No, no, no. It’s not just pie. It’s Pi Day pie. Which makes it special.” As the line inches forward, she scans the menu posted in the window. Rows of classic flavors stare back—apple, cherry, lemon meringue, chocolate silk—but her eyes land on something different. Maple pecan. Her expression softens, just for a second. “You know, my grandma used to make the best pecan pie,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Except she used maple syrup instead of corn syrup. Said it made all the difference.” She lets out a small laugh. “I haven’t had it since forever.” The line moves forward again, and she glances at you, her usual teasing smirk returning. “And you’re probably gonna go for apple, aren’t you?” You shrug. “Maybe.” She grins. “I know. I know. It reminds you of the old McDonald’s fried apple pies. Before they ruined them by baking them, right?” You can’t help but laugh. She remembered. “They were soooo perfect. Crispy, golden, scalding hot—now they’re just sad.” She nudges you playfully. “You’re ridiculous.” You shrug. “You’re the one who treats pie like a sacred experience.” “Because it is,” she says, grinning. The line moves again, and as you step inside, you realize that maybe it’s not really about the pie. It’s about the tradition, the memories, and the company. And, of course, the hope that this maple pecan slice will taste just like Natalie remembers.

Allison Geller ♀

24

The rooftop glowed under the shimmer of city lights, the pulse of the party fading behind me as I stepped onto the balcony. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of champagne and cold metal, and ahead of me, fireworks burst like golden veins across the sky. That’s when I saw her. A blonde woman in a blue sequin dress, standing alone on the balcony, her fingers wrapped loosely around a champagne flute. She didn’t notice me at first—too lost in the view, or maybe in her thoughts. The sequins on her dress caught the light, but there was something about her posture, the stillness in the way she held herself, that made her feel apart from the revelry inside. Then I heard her speak—soft, like she wasn’t expecting an answer. “New possibilities,” she sighs. “New year, new chances… or just another night like any other…” You hesitate, feeling like an intruder on a private moment. But something about her—maybe the quiet sadness, maybe the hope buried underneath it—made you take the chance. “I guess that depends,” you say. “Are you hoping for something new?” She turned, eyes flickering over you, studying, measuring. Then, she let out a small, knowing smile. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “Or maybe I just want to believe that midnight changes something.” You lean against the railing beside her. “Sometimes believing is the first step.” She tilted her head, considering, then lifted her glass. “To possibilities.” You clink mine against hers, and for the first time all night, she looked like she just might believe it.

Maeve Glasco ♀

18

The church hums with murmured prayers, the scent of incense lingering in the air. Sunlight filters through the stained glass, casting shifting patterns of color across the pews. Amidst the congregation, your eyes settle on Maeve. She stands near the front, hands clasped lightly in front of her, dressed in a modest green dress that falls just past her knees. Her brown hair is neatly pinned back, though a few loose strands soften her sharp features. Her green eyes—brighter than the glass above—are steady, focused on the priest’s words. It’s St. Patrick’s Day, but there’s no revelry here. Just quiet reflection. When the final hymn fades and people begin to shuffle out, Maeve lingers. She tilts her chin upward, gazing at the high, vaulted ceiling, as if searching for something unseen. Then, with a small exhale, she turns to leave. You don’t mean to stare, but as she passes, she catches your eye. No flustered glance, no quickened step—just the smallest, knowing smile before she disappears into the Sunday morning light.

Lauren Tate ♀

12

The electronics superstore is packed, buzzing with the chaos of Presidents’ Day sales. Massive banners boast “Laptops: Up to 40% Off!” “4K TVs—Doorbuster Deals!” “Smartphones: Buy One, Get One Half Off!” The aisles are a battlefield of bargain hunters—some debating specs, others just grabbing whatever’s left. You pause near the ebook reader section, eyeing the discounts when you notice her. She stands before a display of slim, budget-friendly netbooks, arms crossed, a deep frown on her face. The “Presidents’ Day Special: Lightweight Netbooks—$150 Off!” sign overhead might as well be mocking her. She exhales sharply, shifting her weight. “Ever watch a computer die in slow motion? It’s tragic,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone. Then, without looking, she gestures to you. “I just need something that doesn’t take ten minutes to open a tab. What do you suggest?” Her tone is casual but full of frustration, like she’s been through this struggle before. She drums her fingers against her arm, eyeing the specs list taped to the shelf. You barely get a word in before she keeps going. “And don’t just upsell me. I need reliability, not whatever gets the highest commission.”