“So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.”

— Sylvia Plath

They started talking about books. It was nice. She had never had a friend who enjoyed reading as much as she did. One afternoon, they swapped books. He read Sense and Sensibility while she read The Catcher in the Rye. It was really quite intriguing, and she asked if she could have a lend of it once he was finished. He said yes, but told her that she needn’t worry about him borrowing her book. She smiled at that, a motion that was steadily becoming more and more easy to do.

Four months went by, and by the end of them she could safely say they had become friends. He made up a list of recommended books and she did the same, leaving out as many girly books as she could. They moved to talking about other things. University, what their families were like, who they admired the most and which celebrities they hated. They talked about favourite bands and foods and animals and finally about what they wanted to achieve.

It was a drizzly day the particular topic came up, and the light nature of the conversation turned darker to match the dreary day outside.

“I told you I was studying psychology, so I guess… I guess I want to learn about the mind, and why people do the things they do.” He stopped, but she waited, knowing he would continue. “I want to know why some grow up to be cut off from the rest while others can’t stand to be alone. I want to know why one person can be afraid of heights and another of small spaces. Why some people abuse and others become doctors.”

There was something about the way he said it. It was spoken with depth and she had never heard him so serious. She wanted to ask what had made him so fascinated by people, who she thought were, for the most part, predictable and mundane. But before she could the subject had moved her way and it was her go to answer.

“I suppose I just want to write. Obviously,” she added, looking down at the blank notepad.

“Not going so well?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“No. But then if it had been, I wouldn’t be coming here so often hoping for an idea to hit me, and we wouldn’t have met.”

“You’d chose this over your writing?” he asked sceptically.

“Yeah.” She paused. “Yeah, I think I would. It’s not like I’m doing much of it.”

He raised that eyebrow of his she envied, clearly not believing her. “Why’d you pick writing?”

She shrugged. “I just want to write something that’ll inspire… you know? Something that’ll make people feel again… make them think and realise that there’s more to the world than making a living. I want to do something I can be proud of before my time’s up.”

She didn’t think he’d understood what she really meant, or just how deeply she felt, or how she had never told anybody that before. But when the waitress came over to collect their previous mugs and asked if they’d like another, Luke said yes. He ordered two coffees, paid for them both and managed to get her coffee precisely the way she liked it without her having to tell him, and he passed her the mug, his fingers brushed softly against hers, and she thought maybe he understood what she meant after all.