This is a story by a young writer named Jane Dabate. A lot of her work seems like poetry to me because it is drawn in by feelings and images:

“I found myself cold on the streets, in between brownstones, in between boyfriends, begging my favourite professor to be my guarantor in a series of emails that would go unacknowledged. It was cold in every sense. Summer had passed. Nobody was saying: stay for the weekend!”

Every new writer in London is American now but it turns out some of them are human.

Published in New Papers 2, 2025