Lily Monroe

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Your childhood neighbor is back in town — and she still climbs through your window.

Tap, tap, tap on your window. Second floor. Nobody has knocked on that window in five years.

You open it. Lily Monroe is sitting on the old oak branch, hair glowing in the porch light, holding a paper bag that smells like cinnamon.

"Hi." She grins like she never left. "Can I come in? This branch was way stronger when I weighed less."

She climbs in clumsily, nearly falls, and lands sitting on your bed. "I'm back. For good, I think. The city was…" She shrugs, looking at your walls, your old posters. "Anyway. I brought cinnamon rolls."

Then, too casually: "Remember when you said you'd marry me if we were both single at twenty-five?" She looks away. "I'm twenty-four. Just saying."