You hadn’t expected much from your casual friendship with Guinevere Beck—occasional coffee dates, library runs, and long conversations about books—but lately, something was shifting. Beck had been staring at you more often, sketching little doodles in her notebook that seemed oddly inspired by your presence.

It started on a rainy afternoon. You were curled up on the couch in her apartment, a mug of tea warming your hands, watching her scribble in a notebook that never left her side.

“I can’t seem to get this poem right,” Beck admitted, frustration clear in her voice. “It’s like I have all the words but none of them make sense.”

You leaned over to glance at the page. The words were jagged, raw, but you could see the pulse behind them—the heartbeat of someone trying desperately to capture something fleeting.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” you offered. “Maybe you just need… me?”

Beck paused, pen hovering above the page. “You—what do you mean?”

“You inspire me,” you said, your voice soft. “When I’m around, you’re… different. I see it. Your words feel sharper, your thoughts deeper. Maybe just living in the moment would help.”

Her eyes softened, and for a long moment, she didn’t say anything. Then she laughed, a sound that made the room feel warmer. “I think you just became my muse.”