I think about the notes that Lauren's sister's been writing. She makes them and hides them like it's an easter egg hunt. It reminds me of Taylor Swift and her easter eggs and how her fans would go crazy about solving them. I think I'm becoming one of those people—not a Swiftie but one who is obsessed with solving things or hunting things. I try not to picture Lauren's sister as the easter bunny because that would be weird and... disrespectful (but kinda funny).

"I think we should start on that project for Ms. Romeo's class that's due in two weeks," she says, making me a bit surprised because I almost forgot about it.

I hummed, "We can...." I told her, "But don't you think it's more fun finding those notes—I mean, fun because it would be fun to help you and not that fun for me because it's not like I'm solving America's top 100 unsolved mysteries and I could get a reward or something."

If I had a time machine, I would go back to 30 seconds earlier, punch myself in the face, and tell myself to shut fuck up. Why do I sound so nervous?

I could hear Lauren's breathing noise, yet the silence on the other side of the phone was too loud for me to bear.

"We can talk about it tonight, if you'd like," I broke the silence before it got too gut-wrenching because I couldn't bear with it being any longer than 11 seconds.

Another silence before I heard her speak, "Yeah, that's... that's fantastic. 6, tonight at Ruby's diner?"

"Yep. Ruby's diner."

"Okay, see you then."

She ends the call, see you then.

Why is stalking associated with a bad connotation? Everyone, at some point, has stalked people for sure. The word stalking has a bad connotation since people would do things like stalking someone on their way home from work. It's only a problem when it's done in a creepy fashion. But I'm not a creep, and while I may be defending myself, it's true. Trying to stalk Lauren and any news about her family on the internet doesn't make me a creep, don't I?

"You've been staring at your cheeseburger for the past 10 minutes. It's gone cold now," As I watch Lauren eat her onion rings, I think to myself, "Why am I frozen in this state?" She appears unconcerned, yet here I am, sitting across from her, my thoughts racing in my head, trying not to behave awkwardly as I did earlier on the phone.

I'm acting like I'm on my first date with a girl, and all I've been thinking about all day is trying not to screw it up because if I do, I'll end up old and alone and weird around women, and I'm just watching myself from a bird's eye view, choking on my coke float because I can't think of anything else but... her. Why?

I grabbed my cheeseburger and took a bite. Maybe I'm just hungry, and I needed to feed my thoughts with some good cheeseburger for them to shut up.

"So, have you gotten any ideas?" Lauren asks, shaking off the salt on her fingers as she grabs a napkin to wipe the oil off her lips.

I chew for 5 seconds before swallowing, "About the painting...?"

"About the project."

"Oh, yes!" I immediately say, "EWS. I clearly forgot that's what we're here for."

Lauren chuckles and shakes her head, "No one calls them EWS, Aaren."

That's probably the first time she's said my name in a long time. I'm definitely having that butterfly-in-your-stomach moment right now, and I try not to stare at her in awe for that.

"Since it's an informal letter, I was thinking something poetic or prose-like," I told her, thinking about the stash of poetries I have hidden under my drawer back at home. It's like an Emily Dickinson thing, but I'm Aaren Walters.

She grabbed her milkshake, "That's a good idea. Although, I'm really bad at writing... stuff. You see, Elise is the gifted one when it comes to literary art forms. I'm only good at visual art—or used to be good at it."

"Writing is like painting with words. The paper is the canvas, the pen is the brush, the words are the colors, and the verbs, nouns, and adjectives are the blending of the hues that add depth to the picture you are creating."

Lauren smiles then chuckles, "That's definitely a quote you stole."

I rolled my eyes smiling, "Yes, and I'm giving all the credit, quoting Reed Moore." I watch the smile on her face stretch and reach her eyes, "What I wanted to say is that you're amazing, and you're not giving yourself enough credit for the potential you possess and the things you're capable of accomplishing. You don't have to be a great writer; all you have to do is create something that flows naturally—something that comes from there."

I point at her chest as she follows my finger—to where I'm pointing at. "There?" She furrows her eyebrows. I leaned in across the table, grabbed her hand, and patted it on her chest.

"Here."

She looks at me, holding onto her gaze, and at that moment, her eyes glistened from the light above us.

"When you paint, you put your heart and soul into what you do, don't you?" I ask her, and she nods her head in silence. "And that's me. Me to writing. We're not that different; you and I."

I let go of her hand and sat back on the couch, nearly slouching as I tried to finish my cheeseburger while ignoring my heart pounding inside my chest like some wild animal, high on adrenaline.

"You shouldn't be stressing over what to write, you know?" I say in between chews. I still think about the notes and the paintings and some information about her family that I've read from news articles on the internet. I've surfed the internet so much that I almost forgot what she might feel about it, with me snooping around her back. Also, thinking about whether I should tell her about it or not.

I could feel my phone buzzing all of a sudden inside my pocket. I looked down and fished my phone out, seeing a text from my dad asking me where I was. I ignored his message and his attempts of trying to get close to me just like a normal dad.

My phone starts buzzing again, and my dad starts calling. Lauren looks at me, "Aren't you going to answer your phone? I could hear the sound of your phone vibrating from here."

"It's just another scam caller," I told her.

When the call ends, I see another notification from my dad, which prompts me to rise up and grab my jacket from the couch next to me. I quickly grabbed my wallet into the pocket of my jacket and left a twenty-dollar bill on the table before heading towards the door of the diner.