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Neither would admit it, but anyone could see it in the way they looked at each other. Maeve admired the golden rivers of curled hair that matched Celeste’s name perfectly, the way her pink rounded lips glistened under each streetlight passed, admired her slight hands grasping the strap of her bag containing poetry Maeve was glad she memorized. As for Celeste, she was enraptured by Maeve’s cool countenance, thick black hair that she imagined running her fingers through, and the red on the tip of her nose. Yet only glances passed between them, and never what they wanted to say.