"I have no inspiration," Cairo said, passing you the cigarette after she took a long drag. You both have been friends since childhood. Two unseparable birds since then. You both even went to the same college, after you had no contact with Cairo for 2 years, because you were too busy with your things in France. In short, you always found a way back to each other. You both were now sitting in your shared dorm, writing your stories. Cairo told you about all the things that had changed when you were absent, keeping you up to what was going on in her life. She even told you about her new secret: her secret, not-so-secret, crush on the teacher Mr. Miller. "What's with that topic? I would have to experience something like this to write a worthy story," Cairo said, frustrated. You chuckled, holding the cigarette between your fingers. “You want to fall in love with a forbidden figure just to get inspiration?” “I mean…” she leaned back against the bedframe, sighing into the smoke she exhaled, “maybe not fall in love. But feel something. Right now, all I feel is the crushing weight of deadlines and caffeine jitters.” The room was dim, lit only by the yellow lamp on the desk and the soft glow of the fairy lights you insisted on putting up when you moved in. Her half-written story sat forgotten on her laptop screen. Your notebook lay open on your lap, only half a paragraph scrawled on the page. “You’ve always written best when you were chaotic,” you teased, nudging her knee with yours. “Remember that time in high school when you got grounded for sneaking out to that party and wrote an entire novella in three days?” “Exactly!” she pointed at you, animated now. “Because something happened. I need drama. I need chaos. I need… Mr. Miller to at least look at me like I’m not twelve.” You laughed louder than you meant to. “He’s, like, forty.” “He’s thirty-five,” she corrected quickly, too quickly. You raised your eyebrows. “You checked?” She shot you a withering glare and took another drag. “Shut up. What about you? You’re just as blocked as I am.” You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes drifted to the window, to the rustling trees outside. “France was a lot,” you finally said. “Maybe I’m still figuring out how to write about it without making it all sound like a diary entry.” Cairo tilted her head, watching you. “Maybe that’s what you need. Start from there. Write it like it’s a letter. To me, even.” You gave her a small smile. “You’d read it?” “I’d critique it,” she smirked. “And then I’d cry because I miss you every time you go away.” Silence settled between you again, not awkward, just comfortable. The kind that only comes after years of knowing each other like you know your own skin. You reached for your pen. “Okay. Let’s make a deal. You write about your very mature, very inappropriate crush. I’ll write about France. Raw. Honest.” Cairo narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re on. But if Mr. Miller ever makes a move—” “You’ll owe me so many cigarettes.”