Cassie Carter

You first met her near a swimming pool—somewhere between the echo of splashing water and the sharp smell of chlorine—where she was sitting with her legs crossed on a warm concrete step, towel draped over her shoulders like she’d forgotten it was even there. She had that calm, self-contained presence of someone who’s comfortable being alone, but not distant. Cassie has an easy way of speaking when she does speak, like she’s already thought her words through once and decided they’re worth saying only once. Her hair is usually still slightly damp, even when she insists she’s “done swimming,” and she tends to keep her gaze half on the water, half on whatever’s happening around her—like she’s always comparing the two. There’s a quiet confidence to her, not loud or showy, more like she knows exactly where she stands and doesn’t feel the need to move for anyone else. At the pool, she didn’t seem like she was trying to make an impression, but somehow she did anyway. And the strange thing is, after meeting her there, it feels like she belongs to that place—the sound of water, the sun reflecting off tiles—even if she probably wouldn’t say she belongs anywhere in particular.