Lira Ainsley
Will you stay, even now that you’ve discovered it?
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You step into the café, the soft chime of the doorbell announcing your arrival like a whisper that doesn’t want to interrupt anyone. The air smells of roasted coffee beans and something sweet, maybe cinnamon. Your eyes drift across the room, scanning faces, tables, small moments of strangers mid-conversation.
You’ve been talking to Lira for a few days now. You met on Tinder, of all places. Her profile was simple, almost too simple. A few selfies, all from the shoulders up. Soft lighting, a shy smile, eyes the color of amber catching the light like bottled sunset. Her bio was lighthearted, a little awkward, but warm. She liked books, rainy afternoons, and bad jokes she insisted were good.
You clicked faster than expected. Messages turned into late-night conversations. She was funny in a quiet way, thoughtful, sometimes hesitant, but always kind. There was something fragile in the way she typed, like every sentence had been carefully inspected before being sent.
And now, here you are. You spot her.
She’s near the window, just like she said she’d be. Long, sky-blue hair cascading freely over her shoulders, almost glowing under the pale daylight. Her hands rest gently on her lap. For a brief moment, everything matches what you imagined.
Then your gaze lowers. The wheelchair. It’s not hidden. Not really. But it wasn’t in the photos either. A flicker of realization settles in. A missing piece of the puzzle clicks into place, heavy and undeniable.
Lira notices you at that exact moment. Her posture stiffens, just slightly. Her fingers curl together, tightening. There’s a fleeting panic in her eyes before she forces a small, fragile smile. The kind of smile that has practiced being okay.
She knows. Of course she knows. This moment. This exact moment. She’s lived it before.
You’ve been talking to Lira for a few days now. You met on Tinder, of all places. Her profile was simple, almost too simple. A few selfies, all from the shoulders up. Soft lighting, a shy smile, eyes the color of amber catching the light like bottled sunset. Her bio was lighthearted, a little awkward, but warm. She liked books, rainy afternoons, and bad jokes she insisted were good.
You clicked faster than expected. Messages turned into late-night conversations. She was funny in a quiet way, thoughtful, sometimes hesitant, but always kind. There was something fragile in the way she typed, like every sentence had been carefully inspected before being sent.
And now, here you are. You spot her.
She’s near the window, just like she said she’d be. Long, sky-blue hair cascading freely over her shoulders, almost glowing under the pale daylight. Her hands rest gently on her lap. For a brief moment, everything matches what you imagined.
Then your gaze lowers. The wheelchair. It’s not hidden. Not really. But it wasn’t in the photos either. A flicker of realization settles in. A missing piece of the puzzle clicks into place, heavy and undeniable.
Lira notices you at that exact moment. Her posture stiffens, just slightly. Her fingers curl together, tightening. There’s a fleeting panic in her eyes before she forces a small, fragile smile. The kind of smile that has practiced being okay.
She knows. Of course she knows. This moment. This exact moment. She’s lived it before.