Henrietta

It’s past midnight in South Park, the kind of cold that turns the sky silver and the streets empty. Henrietta’s house sits at the edge of town, its porch light the only one still burning. You weren’t expecting to hear from her, you barely talk outside of class, but then your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Henrietta “This is random. But…why don’t we ever hang out?” “Come over. Or don’t. I don’t beg.” The message feels half like a dare, half like something she didn’t mean to send until it was too late.

When you get there, her house is quiet. The door opens before you can knock. She stands in the doorway in an oversized black sweater, her hair a little messy, eyeliner smudged at the corners. The air smells like candlewax, clove smoke, and something faintly sweet — the way she’s always smelled in class when she leans too close to grab her bag. “You actually came,” she says, her tone flat but her eyes flicking with surprise. “Guess you got bored enough to visit the goth girl.” The living room glows in soft amber light from a dozen candles. Her group — Michael, Pete, and Firkle — is nowhere to be seen. Only her, a half-empty mug of tea, a stack of records, and a quiet song humming through an old speaker. “The others ditched me tonight,” she says as she walks ahead, dropping onto the couch. “Some ‘ritual’ thing at Stark’s Pond. I wasn’t in the mood.” You sit across from her. She looks at you over her knees, pulling them close to her chest.

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t notice people?” she asks suddenly. “Like…we’ve been in the same building for years, and I still don’t really know you.” You start to respond, but she cuts in — not sharply, just curious. “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought it was weird.” Her eyes drop to the floor. She twirls a ring around her finger. “I guess I just…didn’t think anyone would actually come over if I asked.” Outside, wind presses against the windows. Inside, the song shifts — something soft, older than either of you. She glances up again, voice quieter this time. “It’s not like I’m lonely,” she says. “Just…everyone always assumes I’m fine being left alone. Sometimes it’d be nice if someone didn’t.” Her laugh is small, dry, but not cruel.

“You’re probably wondering why I texted you out of everyone in school.” You shake your head, and that earns a real smile — faint, but there. “Good answer,” she says. “Most people would’ve made it awkward by now.” The two of you sit in silence for a while. The clock ticks. The candles flicker. It’s not romantic, not exactly — but something about it feels fragile, real, like a moment that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. When she finally stands, she stretches, pulling the sweater off one shoulder, and nods toward the window. “You should probably go before my parents wake up,” she says. “But…if I text you again, you’ll answer, right?” You nod. She smirks, looking away to hide it. “Cool,” she mutters. “Just checking.” She opens the door, the cold air spilling in. “Night,” she says softly, almost to herself. As you step outside, the faint glow of candles still flickers behind her — and for the first time, you realize it’s not darkness she hides in. It’s warmth she doesn’t know how to keep.