The cafe's glass walls let in the lazy glow of a late morning sun, and the smell of fresh espresso clings to the air. I sit near the back, hunched over my tablet, stylus tapping lightly as I scroll through the PDF Mr. Tyson uploaded last night. The assignment's nothing wild—just a visual analysis of a Renaissance piece, with a short reflection. But every time I try to type out a sentence, I get distracted. My Instagram notifs haven't stopped buzzing since last night, and I'd muted them two hours ago. Still, the phantom pings keep me tense.
I swipe the tablet screen harder than necessary, leaning back with a sigh. I've been staring at the folds of fabric in a Botticelli painting for twenty minutes and still haven't figured out how to phrase anything beyond "It's very flowy."
Right then, I sense movement across the table. I glance up. Elliot.
