“Pick a secret,” the team captain had announced, setting up a timer on her phone, “it could be one that you’ve had for years, or one you just hid away this morning. Whatever it is, pick one and write from the perspective of that secret.”

It was meta and totally, hilariously painful, but Puffy’s prompts always were; the team captain firmly believed in shoving her writers out of their comfort zone to access their true potential. Sure, sometimes it led to scrambled messes of words and jumbled thoughts, sometimes it was nothing more than venting on paper and misshapen images, but every now and then when Puffy nudged them just right, it made something beautiful. Vulnerability, she’d say, twirling a pen between her fingers as if it was a dagger and she the assassin, is the best way to start a poem. Start genuine, and the rest will follow.

it was just their weekend quick write, one they did every poetry practice to get the juices flowing, but there was something in the air today. Maybe it was the way the fairy lights of Kinoko’s were winking as their batteries bled, maybe it was the way the dregs of their drinks lay forgotten in the bottoms of their cups, aromas wafting in the air and tangling around.

“Stop! Fifteen minutes are up!” And just like that, it was already over.

“Wrap up whatever line you’re at. We’re going to share whatever is on our page, even if it’s just a line.” Puffy called out and something in the room burst, the chatter of Kinoko’s returning to your ears as you breathe, elation falling from a simmer to a bubble and then finally to a rest as you placed your pen down. Across from you, Foolish is making a mad dash to finish whatever he’s writing, and Ponk has pulled out his earbuds with a nervous laugh, staring at the words on his page as if they would leap and bite him. Even Dream, who always sat so still and unperturbed during practices, as if nothing could phase him, was anxiously playing with his mechanical pencil, unloading and re-loading the lead with the care one would treat a rifle.