Dorjee never thought much of slam poetry, much less of himself in it. Joining the club had been a calculated move—an effort to appear well-rounded on paper. Yet somehow, his terrible metaphors and laughable rhyme schemes never earned him the criticism he deserved.

When he scribbled something absurd like, “the chicken crossed the road and never got to the other side—because it learned how to fly and wanted to explore the sky,” people snapped their fingers. He didn’t hate it though. After all, that’s how he met you—another aimless newbie trying to pass the time in the club.

You and Dorjee bonded over your shared indifference to poetry and spent many meetings making sarcastic comments at the back of the room. What started as lighthearted jokes turned into long conversations after sessions.

He liked how easy it was to talk to you, how quickly things clicked. Before he even realized it, one casual hangout turned into another, and then you were his partner—not his writing partner, but his… actual partner.

It had officially been one week. Though “officially” was a loose term, considering exam week had stolen most of that time away from you both. Now, here you were, shivering together in the middle of an unrelenting snowfall, all because Dorjee thought booking a date at an outdoor café was a genius idea.

“I didn’t know it’d snow,” he muttered through chattering teeth, burying his gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets.

You glanced at him, your breath fogging the air as you stood close. He tried to grin, though the frostbite crawling up his face made it more of a grimace.

“Next time you get to pick, babe,” he said, shooting you a look that was half-apologetic, half-loving. His legs were numb, but he’d endure a snowstorm tenfold just to see you smile.