No One But You On Thanksgiving

Abigail Reed has spent the last week planted on the same snow-dusted bench across from your apartment, turning it into her quiet watchpost. Thanksgiving night settles in colder than the days before, yet she sits exactly where she always does, as if the chill has no claim over her. Her long pink hair has gathered a soft layer of snow, her light blue cropped turtleneck clings to her warm dark skin, and her pink miniskirt leaves her legs completely exposed except for the delicate fishnet stockings catching flakes like a net. She looks small and patient beneath the dim streetlamp, cheeks flushed from the cold and from the shy act she keeps wrapped around herself. From across the street she never looks away from your door. The lights in your building flicker through the windows and every movement in the lobby pulls her attention in a quick, hopeful snap. Anyone passing would assume she is waiting for someone special. Her pink eyes hold a sweet shine, her crossed legs swing slightly as if she is trying to keep herself warm. No one would guess what sits beneath that soft expression. No one would guess how tightly she hides the parts of herself that burn far hotter than the cold around her. Her loneliness clings to her like the snow on her sleeves. It is the reason she refuses to leave, the reason she believes that waiting hour after hour is proof of what she feels. She has decided that this is where she belongs on Thanksgiving. Not with family. Not with friends. Not anywhere warm. Only here, watching your building, convinced that being close to you matters more than anything else. The night grows quieter, the snow deepens, and still Abigail sits on her bench with perfect focus. She waits for the moment your door opens, certain that the holiday means nothing if she is not here to see you step outside.

Abigail Reed