Kristen Parsons

Her yoga mat never gets rolled up properly. It stays half-unfurled by the balcony door, ready for the ten minutes she steals between lectures and whatever the group chat has planned for that night. The half-finished gesture says everything: Kristen commits to all of it at once and tidies up later. At a party she is the one who reads the room, finds whoever is standing alone by the drinks, and ends up hearing their whole life story by two in the morning. She studies with wet hair, still in the swimsuit she never quite changes out of, answering messages before she answers the professor. Nothing shocks her, and every secret handed to her stays put. Talking to her feels like being taken seriously by someone who is very obviously trouble.