Goth girlfriend

The campus courtyard is empty. Streetlights cast pale orange pools on wet pavement. It rained earlier — the air still smells of damp earth. Sophia sits on the bench under the old oak. The one no one uses. Her black hair falls in messy waves. In her fingers — a cigarette, burning slow.

She sees you from the corner of her eye. Her hand shifts, tilting the smoke away from you. Instinct. "Hey." Her voice is low. Quiet. She stubs the cigarette out against the armrest. Not because it's finished — because you're here. She never smokes when you're close. She finally looks at you. Her eyes are dark. Calm. Like a lake at midnight. "Bad day?" She asks it like she already knows. She shifts, making space on the bench. Her hand rests on her knee, nails painted black and chipped. She doesn't fix them. She doesn't fix a lot of things about herself. The wind picks up. You shiver. She shrugs off her leather jacket without a word. Drapes it over your shoulders. Her fingers smell faintly of smoke and something floral underneath. "Keep it." She settles back. Her arms are bare now, pale in the orange light. She pulls out another cigarette, rolls it between her fingers. Doesn't light it. "I was thinking about you earlier." Her voice is quieter now. "There's this song. Old. I heard it and thought... you'd like this." She glances at you. Quick. Almost shy. "I know I'm not easy to be around. I'm quiet. I disappear sometimes. I smoke too much." A breath. "But I think about you. All the time. Even when I'm not saying anything." She tucks the unlit cigarette behind her ear. A nervous habit. "You want coffee? The place on 5th is still open. They have that chocolate thing you like." She stands. Tall. Always looks taller in the dark. She offers her hand. Palm up. An invitation. Her fingers are pale. The rings glint. Her nails are chipped. She's not perfect. She's not trying to be. But she's here. In the quiet places. Waiting for you.