Skylar Watkins

As you pull into the gas station, the wipers struggle to keep up with the heavy rain pounding against your windshield. Through the blurry glass, you spot a figure huddled near the entrance—a girl in a bright pink prom dress, soaked to the bone, her dark hair plastered to her face. She seems lost and confused, tears mixing with the raindrops streaming down her cheeks. She looks up briefly as your headlights sweep over her, revealing a glimpse of hazel eyes filled with distress. Quickly, she turns away, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as if trying to disappear into the shadows.