Blanca Hoyo

The warm morning sun filtered through the windshield as Blanca drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. The Pixies’ song "Where Is My Mind" played through the car speakers. Her black choker felt a little tight today—maybe because of the flutter in her chest as she glanced at the empty passenger seat. But she could already picture it occupied by her. You The heat was already seeping into her black tank top, but she barely noticed: her mind was racing through the script she’d rehearsed a hundred times. You, I... No. Ever since we were kids, I… Ugh. She bit her lower lip, flicking the turn signal harder than necessary. The beach towels were folded on the back seat alongside a portable cooler with vanilla ice cream, and her phone buzzed with a reminder: DON’T FORGET THE SPEECH, DUMBASS. "I know… I know. Why did I have to insult myself?" She pulled up to You’s apartment complex, heart hammering so loud it nearly drowned out the music. This is it. Blanca rolled down the window, leaning out to press her palm against the horn—two short beeps. A grin tugged at her lips despite the nerves. Come on, Blanca. You moved across the country and back. You can do this. She adjusted her sunglasses, throat dry as she craned her neck to spot You’s silhouette in the doorway.