What. Should. I. Write.

I hit my head against the table again and again, hard enough that maybe my thoughts will scramble into something usable. The document on my laptop stays blank, mocking me. I glance at the time blinking at the corner of the screen.

12:03 a.m.

It is already the fourteenth of November, and I have exactly one month left to show some progress on my thesis. One month to prove I am not wasting my life.

I drag in a long breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard, forcing myself to type anything at all and…the screen snaps shut.

I flinch and look up to find Kira leaning forward, one palm pressed against the laptop and the other waving through her hair, staring directly into my soul.

“Mind sharing what you are thinking about?” she asks sweetly, “Did you spot some handsome men at the hospital?”

My mind betrays me, flashing Mikhael’s face, his eyes accusatory like he knew I was lying about being on the dating app.

“You know,” I say, voice flat, “hospitals are meant to treat people. Not for scouting men like we are at some kind of club.”

I slide the laptop away from her grip and reach to open it again, but she is faster. She plucks it right out of my hands and places it into my bag beside me. Before I can protest, she moves closer, resting her chin on top of my head and looping an arm loosely around my neck and begins to sway me side to side.

“University. Hospital. Library,” she groans, “Why do you even have that apartment for, huh? When you spend your entire life rotating between these three places?” She tilts my head upward so I am forced to look at her playful eyes, “Live a little, would you?”

I roll my eyes, “Oh, I am sorry that I am not pursuing the elegant course of fashion designing.”

She finally releases me and pulls out her phone, tapping furiously at the screen, “Why, I forgive you, child,” she declares. Suddenly, she shoves the phone right in front of my face. I hiss and shut my eyes at the blinding brightness, “And you can repay me,” she says brightly, “by coming with me to this extremely popular late-night restaurant!”

“Children! Quiet in the library!”

The librarian’s voice booms from the counter. Mr. Wyen. An old man with kind eyes and a voice that sounds much louder than his body looks. When the library is empty, he tells me stories about this place, how it belongs to his family and the making of it.

“Sorry, Mr. Wyen!” I apologize and turn to Kira, “Wait outside. I will pack everything.”

“Of course, baby!” She blows me a flying kiss as she skips toward the exit, waving enthusiastically at Mr. Wyen on her way out.

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, then sigh, “Who am I kidding?”

Even if I ask her not to do something, she will make it her personal mission to do exactly that like a devil perched on my shoulder, whispering temptation into my ear.

I gather my scrambled notes, highlighters, paper stickers, and zip my bag shut. At the counter, I return my library card to Mr. Wyen.

“Your friend is very lovely and energetic,” he says, smiling.

“Tragic, I know,” I reply, though I can’t stop the smile creeping onto my face.

He chuckles, finishes closing the counter, and walks with me to the door. He locks it behind us and wishes me a good night. Outside, Kira is waiting. As expected, she is glued to her phone, scrolling with focus. The restaurant menu, I assume.

“Oh, Mr. Wyen!” she calls out, “Please thank Mrs. Wyen for letting me use her flower shop!”

He nods and starts walking toward the lakeshore, hands clasped behind his back. I guess that is the end of my night at Crossroad Library, replaced by whatever night fun she has planned.

“So,” I ask as I fall into step beside her, “where is this restaurant?”

“Just a short walk through Glenbroke Street,” she says, reading off her phone, “About ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” I frown, “And we have never seen it before? That is honestly a bad look on us.” I have seen it plenty of times.

“Bad look on you,” she corrects, “I have been dying to go. Everyone in class has already been there and…” She tugs me closer and lowers her voice, “I hear there are plenty of handsome men inside. Jackpot for you.”

I push her face away with my palm. She swats my hand aside, grinning, “Don’t ship me with random men when we get there,” I warn her.

She only laughs and skips ahead. We walk in relative silence, which for Kira means she rambles nonstop about her new artwork, inspired by the flowers Mrs. Wyen sells. Exactly ten minutes later, she stops abruptly and spins toward me, streetlights glowing behind her like a spotlight.

“What do you think of my fit?”

She is wearing a cropped black top layered over a mesh long sleeve, paired with high waisted denim shorts. Baggy white socks peek out above chunky sneakers, and a bucket hat sits low on her head with sunglasses perched on top.

“Why do you even doll up?” I ask sincerely.

“To turn heads, obviously,” she says, spinning again.