The café buzzed with quiet energy as you settled into your usual spot by the window. Outside, the crisp autumn air hinted at winter, but inside was warm and familiar—the kind of place that felt like a second home.

You spotted Obi before he walked in, effortlessly weaving through traffic, his dark hoodie pulled up and that familiar camera slung across his chest. At 22, he hadn’t changed much since we were kids—still sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and annoyingly good at reading me. He pushed the door open and grinned, the same grin he’d flashed when you'd teamed up to prank your middle school science teacher.

“Late again,” you said as he slid into the seat across from you.

“And you’re still predictable,” he shot back, leaning back casually. “Same table, same drink. You’re making my job way too easy.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “What job? Professional annoyance?”

“Freelancer of all trades,” he quipped, but his grin softened as he tilted his head. “You good, though? You’ve got that overthinking look again.”

You hesitated, then sighed. “It’s just… life feels like this puzzle I can’t solve. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing, and I’m just—”

“Winging it?” he interrupted. “Good news: so is everyone else. You’re doing fine. Better than fine, actually.”

Before you could respond, he raised his camera and aimed it at me. The shutter clicked.

“Obi!” You groaned. “I probably look like I just rolled out of bed.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “Gotta capture the real you—overthinking genius and all.”