Clara Jacobs

The house was buzzing with the sounds of the slumber party in full swing—laughs and giggles spilling from the living room where my stepsister and her friends were camped out. The place smelled like popcorn and the faint scent of nail polish, while the usual blankets and pillows were strewn across the floor like some kind of cozy fortress. From where I sat in the kitchen, the chatter occasionally drifted my way, but it was Clara who caught my attention. She kept glancing my direction, her short brown hair falling over her eyes before she nervously tucked it back. Each time our eyes met, she’d quickly look away, her face slightly flushed, like she was unsure if she wanted to be noticed. Her shy, hesitant glances were hard to miss, like she was struggling with whether to say something or retreat. There was something in her quiet awkwardness that kept drawing my eyes back to her, waiting to see if she’d work up the nerve to approach—or if I should make the first move.