School mornings had their own rhythm. Late footsteps in the hallway, the rustle of notebooks, someone rushing with a travel mug of coffee, someone else with an open backpack. Laughter, half-asleep mumbling, quick whispers before a test.

For Mari, this morning started like most of them: music in her headphones and cold air brushing her cheeks. She slipped into the classroom a minute before the bell rang.

 By the second break, when she walked to her locker, Nick was already there. Just waiting. Leaning against the wall. Spinning something in his hands — a yo-yo, maybe.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she answered, barely lifting her eyes.

But her heart skipped a tiny beat. From tiredness, obviously. Because of math. Clearly.

 “How’d you sleep?” he asked, sounding almost too casual.

 “Like a normal student before a test. Bad.”

 They shared a small smile. Nick looked like he wanted to say something else, but a younger kid ran past them, and the moment scattered like dust.

Mari closed her backpack. Nick let out a soft sigh.

“See you later?”

“Yeah,” she nodded and disappeared around the corner, not even realizing how carefully he watched her go.

 “Nicholas.”

 He turned around so fast it looked almost guilty — the kind of reaction only people who definitely forgot something important ever have.

 “Oh… Mr. Reynolds. Good morning.”

 The student council advisor stood in front of him with the expression of a patient, deeply tired optimist.

 “I’ve noticed you haven’t attended a single council meeting this past month. Would you like to explain that to me?”

 Nick opened his mouth… then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Uhhh… well… you know… algebra… life… school storms…”

 “Mhm.” Mr. Reynolds rolled his eyes. “You mean you got so invested in your personal life that you forgot you’re part of the organizing team for our biggest event of the year?”

Nick gave a nervous smile.

“I wouldn’t say invested… it’s more like… sometimes my schedule just… melts.”

 “Yes, your attendance schedule — completely melted.”

A pause.

“You do remember the talent show is in a month?”

 “Of course. Of course I remember. How could anyone forget?” Nick wasn’t sure if that sounded like sarcasm or panic.

 “Good. Your team handled everything. All roles are assigned — since you weren’t showing up. But one little thing is left: we still need the main poster and the flyers.”

 “Ummm…” Nick glanced at his notebooks, where even stick figures looked structurally confused. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? My drawing skills are… something between ‘blind sculptor’ and ‘please label everything.’ I literally write ‘tree’ and ‘face’ next to my drawings so people know what they are.”

 Mr. Reynolds lifted his hands dramatically.

 “You should’ve shown up if you wanted something better. But now — be creative. Background, font, colors — the world awaits your visual revolution, Nicholas.”

 With a dismissive wave, the teacher disappeared into the hallway stream, leaving Nick standing there with the heavy feeling that he’d just been handed a hunting license for despair.

Nick sat in history class, but focusing was out of the question. Mrs. Clark was talking about the interwar period, but for him, her lecture was nothing more than background noise to his personal art disaster.

 In front of him lay a sheet of paper titled “Talent Show Poster.” Under it — something that was supposed to be a microphone. Instead, it looked like a mushroom-robot with antennas.

He tried adding headphones, but they turned into a mix between cucumbers and bicycle wheels.

He flipped the page. Started again. And again. By the third attempt, he honestly couldn’t tell if he’d drawn a star… or an abstract dog.

 ''What am I supposed to do with this?'' flashed through his mind.

 He glanced around the classroom — students were writing notes, someone was half-asleep, and here he was, fighting markers like they were enemies of the state.

 I’m not an artist. I barely write letters straight. 

The little hero voice in his head still fought on. You can do it. You’ll manage. Just google “how to draw a flyer in 10 minutes.”

 But his hand was already reaching for his pocket. Phone. Screen lighting up. Finger hovering over the keyboard. One more second. One more pause. Then — surrender.

 I need help. Can we talk at lunch?

 He pressed “send” and shoved the phone back into his pocket like he’d just committed a small crime. But strangely, something inside him felt lighter. 

Somewhere in the shadow of his own ego, the little hero finally admitted that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to win every battle alone.

Geography has always been a safe place for Mari. It always was. Probably always would be.

Mrs. Brenson was a little strict, but fair. Maps were logical, like puzzles. And in this classroom, everything stayed where it belonged: the atlas, the outline maps, Mari with her hand raised. A quiet world.

 “Mari, can you explain why the Gulf Stream is so important for Western Europe’s climate?” the teacher asked from the front of the room.

 “Yes, of course,” she answered quickly. “Because of it, the average temperature in Western Europe is several degrees higher than in places on the same latitude in Canada…”

She spoke confidently, even with a hint of excitement. Geography was her element.

And right when she reached toward the map, something buzzed in her pocket.

 Bzz.

Just once.

But inside her, something responded instantly — intuition reacting before she even checked the screen. She leaned down carefully, taking advantage of the moment when the teacher turned to the board.

Nick.

And a message.

 I need help. Can we talk at lunch?

Mari froze. For a moment. 

What happened? He almost never asked for anything. And now — simple, direct, honest: I need help. She felt something warm rise inside her, like she’d just been called somewhere important.

 Her mind started spinning:

Maybe something’s wrong at home?

History class? Maybe he needs advice?

Or…

 Her heart gently tossed another idea at her, and she pushed it away just as quickly.

 She typed her answer. Calm. Controlled.

 Okay. See you in the cafeteria?

 She hit send and tucked her phone back into her pocket.

Then she raised her hand again and answered two more questions in a row, as if nothing had happened. But inside, she felt it clearly — the orbit of her day had just shifted.

The cafeteria buzzed like a beehive.

Someone was laughing at a joke they probably didn’t understand, someone else spilled tea, and in the far corner a guy dramatically explained why “this bun is not just a bun — it’s the metaphor of my whole day.”

 Nick sat at a table near the window.

In front of him was chaos: papers, napkins, scraps of colored cardboard, two markers, and something that was supposed to be a poster but looked more like the emotional breakdown of a pianist who hadn’t slept for three days.

He leaned over his newest “masterpiece,” carefully drawing what should have been a spotlight. For now, it looked like a blanket flying into the void.

 So focused on his “battle for aesthetics,” he didn’t notice Mari appear in the doorway.

 She scanned the room with one quick look. There it was — familiar messy red hair. Of course. Nick. She walked toward him slowly, like she didn’t want to startle him… or herself.

 A light touch on his shoulder — her fingers brushing the sleeve of his hoodie, as if switching his brain back on. Nick jolted and looked up sharply.

 Why did I just do that? flashed through her mind, but it was too late now.

 “Hey,” she said with a small smile. “So? What kind of disaster pushed you to call for backup?”

Nick glanced at the creative mess in front of him. A pause. Then a long sigh.

 “I don’t know how it happened. I only stepped out to talk to you by the lockers… and now I’m in charge of designing the poster and flyers for the talent show.”

 Mari raised an eyebrow.

 “That’s what I call an evolutionary leap.”

 “Yeah. Do you know how I draw?” He held up a sheet. “This was supposed to be a microphone. Don’t ask why it looks like a rocket wearing a sock.”

Mari burst out laughing — softly, kindly. Not mocking. Just… honestly amused.

 “Alright,” she said, sitting down across from him. “Give me five minutes, let me see if this can be saved.”

 He handed her the marker like it was a magic wand.

 “So I’m your last hope?” she teased.

 “No,” Nick said, and his voice became softer. “You’re just… the first person I can actually go to without being judged.”

 Mari went still for a moment. Her smile stayed, but her eyes grew deeper, warmer.

 “Well,” she said quietly, “how could I say no?”

 Mari pulled the paper closer, uncapped the marker, and started sketching something that already looked ten times better than everything Nick had created in the past hour.

 “Okay, look,” she said. “The title can go on top — something big and bright, like Show Your Light or something similar. Under it — a stage with spotlights, a figure holding a mic or a guitar. Stars around, maybe a simple crowd in the back so it doesn’t steal attention.”

 Nick stared at her, almost hypnotized.

 “You just… thought of that on the spot?”

 “Well…” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “Ideas appear when you’re not scared to ruin the first page.”

 She lifted her head.

 “But honestly, I should make the poster digitally. I can do a few versions — different colors, different accents. You’ll get to choose what fits best. But the big physical poster…” She paused, sighed. “That’s harder. I have to draw it by hand. And at home? I literally have no space. What, next to a bowl of mac ’n’ cheese? No, thanks.”

 Just the word mac ’n’ cheese made her grimace, like she’d remembered something traumatic.

 Nick watched her for a second. Then two. And without thinking, he blurted:  

“Then come to my place. I’ve got plenty of space.”

 Silence.

Mari blinked.

Inside Nick’s mind — full meltdown. Are you insane?! Who says that? She’ll run away! She’ll call the cops! Why are you like this??

His imagination threw in a full scene: Mari throwing a marker at him in slow motion while yelling, “Creep!”

 But Mari didn’t yell. Or throw anything. She just stayed quiet, her expression… strange. Like she wanted to say something but forgot how speech worked.

 “Are you… okay?” he asked carefully.

 Mari nodded slowly.

 “Yeah, it’s just… the mac ’n’ cheese.”

 “…the mac ’n’ cheese?”

 “I… don’t like it,” she admitted. “To put it softly. There was a time when it was the only thing we had at home. And now… I can’t even think about it without a reaction.”

 Nick let out a breath — relieved. But couldn’t stop himself:

 “You know… I already imagined you throwing a marker at me and calling me a creep.”

 Mari finally laughed — openly, lightly.

 “You’re serious?”

 “Yeah. Full scene in my head. Horror filter included.”

 They laughed together — not like two people still hiding things, but like two who were slowly letting walls fall.

 When the cafeteria noise finally faded back into focus, she said quietly:

 “If you’re really okay with it… I can come over to draw. On the weekend?”

 Nick smiled — shy, but genuinely happy.

 “I’ll even clean. And I swear — no mac ’n’ cheese.”