notebook hitting the armrest.
He writes fast, messy, scribbling,
a madman?—
half-cursive, ink smudging his hand.
‘Cause if he slows down,
the words’ll disappear for good.
We build it for another hour.
Line by line.
Word by word.
Stacking meaning into sound
until it’s breathing and bleeding.
By the time the sun drips orange outside the studio windows, Diggs stretches like he walked out of a fistfight—arms up, breath heavy.
He glances at Celie.
“Steppin’ out for a cig,” he says, flicking his lighter once, then points at her. “You’re comin’ with, yeah?”
Celie blinks, completely caught off guard.
“She don’t smoke,” I mutter,
eyes back on my page.
Diggs throws his gaze at me.
“I know she doesn’t smoke,” he deadpans.
Celie stands, adjusting her yoga pants over her hips. “Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, nah, I wasn’t, like… not gonna go.”
A slow smile spreads across my face,
my gaze sliding between the two.
She’s been playing it cool all day?—
‘just here to bring empanadas’my ass.
He grins wide. “Good. Let’s go.”
The door clicks shut behind them.
I grab my phone and pull up Andrew’s text.
Read it again.
Still hits the same.
I start typing, when?—
