Amare

Team Pineapple

We slipped back into our seats after going around the cafe's shelves. The small space smelled of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries, and the gentle murmur of conversations swirled around us.

We'd spent a few minutes flipping through an random mix of books and magazines—everything from The Beginner's Guide to Origami to a glossy, futuristic sci-fi novel with a spaceship on the cover.

Sol had picked up the latter, thumbing through the pages like he was weighing whether to dive in, but ultimately, we left it behind.

Settling back at our table, the world outside our little bubble seemed to dim. The cafe felt like its own universe, cozy and unhurried, where time stretched in a way that made you forget the minutes ticking by.

Sol leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in a way that made him look thoughtful. "Alright," he said, his grin slow and teasing. "Let's play a game. What's the weirdest thing you've ever tried to draw?"

I paused mid-bite, laughing so hard I nearly dropped my cookie. "The weirdest thing? Oh, that's easy—an octopus holding a teacup."

"A what?" he interrupted, his laugh already bubbling up.

"Yeah," I continued, setting my cookie down and gesturing with both hands like I could somehow show him the disaster. "It didn't go well. The arms got tangled, the perspective was all wrong, and the teacup? It looked more like a potato."

That broke him. He laughed loud enough that a few heads turned our way, but he didn't seem to care. It was the kind of laugh that lit up his whole face, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"An octopus? That's... bold," he said between breaths, shaking his head. "Meanwhile, I'm over here still stuck on drawing trees. And don't even get me started on hands."

"Hands are the worst," I agreed, waving my cookie like it was a wand. "But I don't just draw—I paint, too. And, you know, I write stories."

Leaning forward, the grin on his face shifting into genuine curiosity. "Stories?"

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "I like writing mysteries, mostly. Breadcrumbs that readers can follow, little twists that make them go, 'Oh, I didn't see that coming.' It's so fun watching people piece it together."

He tilted his head, considering. "So, not epic fantasies with dragons, then?"

I laughed. "Not really. More like... mysteries with layers. What about you?"

"Writing's my thing, too," he said, lifting his coffee mug with a casual shrug. "Mostly stories. But poetry? That's where it's at for me."

"Poetry?" I set my cookie down, surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said, and there was something soft about the way he smiled now. "It's like painting pictures with words. Sometimes it's about making something beautiful, and sometimes it's about figuring out how to say the thing you can't say out loud. It's... intense, but in a good way."

I tilted my head, trying to imagine it. "That's seriously cool. I've never even tried poetry. It feels too abstract—like I'd overthink it and ruin the flow."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "You're a storyteller. Poetry's just another way to tell a story, just shorter and more... focused. You'd be good at it, I bet."

"Maybe," I said, though my tone made it clear I wasn't entirely convinced. "For now, painting is my escape. It's my 'don't overthink things' zone."

"Lucky you," he said, and his voice carried a trace of envy. "I'm still at the 'how do I make a stick figure look less terrible' phase. Hands? Forget it. Impossible."

I grinned. "I'll make you a step-by-step tutorial for noses. You've got this."

"Bless you," he said solemnly, though the glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

The conversation flowed after that, meandering into lighter topics—our favorite snacks, the hobbies we loved as kids, and, of course, the eternal debate: pineapple on pizza.

To my horror, Sol turned out to be firmly on Team Pineapple.

The café felt warm and timeless, like a moment frozen in amber. It wasn't until I glanced at the clock on the wall that the spell broke. 12:52 PM.

"Oh no," I said, sitting up quickly. "Class starts in eight minutes!"

Sol groaned, dragging a hand dramatically over his face. "Ugh, don't remind me. Back to pretending we're learning something, huh?"

"Unfortunately," I said, grabbing my bag.

We stepped outside into the crisp afternoon air. The walk to the psychology building wasn't far, but we kept our pace leisurely, neither of us rushing to end the quiet ease of the moment.

"Alright, philosopher," Sol said as the building came into view. "Here's the deal. Next time we have a free afternoon, you teach me how to draw, and I'll teach you how to write a poem."

I glanced at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. "I'll think about it." I said with a playful smirk.

We stepped inside, the soft hum of student chatter and the faint smell of old books wrapping around us. As the door swung shut behind us, I couldn't help but smile.