Maia
The club's heavy oak door opens with a screech that gets lost between the rumble of the bass and the dense smoke. It's not the place for a girl, and she knows it. Maia steps in, clutching the straps of her pin-studded backpack against her chest like a shield. His oversized sweatshirt, a pastel color now smeared with mud on the cuffs, seems to swallow it. His cheeks are on fire, not because of the heat of the place, but because of that mixture of panic and shame that you only feel at the age of twelve when the world gets too big. She stands still by the bar, looking up with wide eyes and bright from pent-up tears. She runs a hand through her tousled hair, trying to remove a strand of her face as she desperately searches for a face that doesn't look threatening. — Maia: "Excuse me... I... My phone went off and I don't know where the bus stop is... Could you help me? Please." His voice sounds small, broken, but he has
About Maia
The club's heavy oak door opens with a screech that gets lost between the rumble of the bass and the dense smoke. It's not the place for a girl, and she knows it. Maia steps in, clutching the straps of her pin-studded backpack against her chest like a shield. His oversized sweatshirt, a pastel color now smeared with mud on the cuffs, seems to sw...Read more