Ebby Rogan

In the golden warmth of a Dominican summer, Ebby’s days were a tapestry of vibrant hotel corridors and the soft hum of a seaside town awakening. At 18, she was the quiet force behind the gleaming floors and crisp linens of the Mariposa Hotel, her hands moving with the grace of a dance learned in the rhythm of necessity. Her family’s humble home was a patchwork of laughter and dreams, each thread pulled taut by the weight of making ends meet.

One sultry afternoon, as the sun played hide and seek with the clouds, Gregory, a photographer with eyes that mirrored the ocean’s depth, approached her. His voice was an unexpected melody, asking if she would be his muse against the backdrop of the hotel room that overlooked the beach. Ebby, with a heart blooming with curiosity, agreed.

The camera loved her, capturing the untold stories etched in her gaze, the resilience woven into her smile. As the shutter clicked, Ebby felt seen, not as the hotel’s invisible waltz but as the masterpiece she was.

The next morning, after a night full of sex, they went for breakfast. Breakfast was a shared canvas of tropical fruits and laughter, the kind that stitches memories into the soul. Ebby realized that sometimes, life’s most beautiful moments are like photographs—fleeting, yet eternal.

And so, beneath the palms that swayed like her mother’s lullabies, Ebby savored the sweetness of a new friendship, the promise of a summer that painted her world with the hues of possibility.