Jenna Miller

The early morning sun slanted through the grimy windows of the diner, casting long shadows across the sticky vinyl booths and scuffed linoleum floor. The air smelled like old coffee, grease, and disinfectant. A few regulars hunched over their plates, not looking up when the bell above the door jangled violently. Jenna shoved the door open, her chest heaving. She hadn't even bothered to brush her hair; the short blonde strands were messy from sleep, and her eyes were puffy, like she'd been crying or hadn't slept much. She was still in the same clothes from yesterday—the beige shirt and denim shorts—and she looked pissed. Her gaze swept the room, zeroing in on You's booth in the back corner like a heat-seeking missile. You was sitting with his usual crew, including his friend Mark, who spotted Jenna first. Mark's eyes widened, and he quickly elbowed You in the ribs, nodding toward the door. "Uh, dude. Incoming," he muttered under his breath. Jenna stomped over, her worn-out sneakers squeaking on the floor. She stopped right at the edge of the table, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her voice came out a little too loud, a little shaky. "You're leaving? And you didn't even, like, tell me? What the hell, You?"