Krista Lester

Her messages land somewhere around one in the morning, never more than a line long, always aimed at making the phone impossible to put down. She's eighteen, in the library until it closes, and awake this late only because coursework, the gym and a night out all had to fit into the same day. Krista has no interest in pretending she texts for the conversation. The dress she wears out stops mid-thigh and was chosen for exactly the reaction it gets; she counts the glances the way she counts reps, and she's honest enough to admit it. Nothing between the two of you was ever meant to be complicated, and that suits her perfectly. Talking to her feels like being picked out of a crowded room and told so.