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freelance gigs my way when they were too booked to handle some small jobs internally. Before Christmas they offered me a fulltime job after graduation. Since then, I've been working part-time for them as my schedule allows. With school and taking care of my granddad eating up so much of my time, it's been a pretty sweet arrangement. They're flexible with me."
    "Okay," I said slowly and tried to focus on my assignment. He did like to talk. During his last little spiel, the professor had walked in. She'd dropped something on her desk and stepped over to the closest student to observe. Maybe her being here would be his cue to be quiet now.
    Oddly enough, it was the first time in a long time I'd actually felt indifferent to that possibility, rather than relieved.
    "I didn't think art was a requirement for creative writing," he said a little quieter, but not whispering. "For some reason, I don't see you picking it as an elective because it's just something you love. So why are you here?"
    He'd rambled this without looking at me. I could fake an answer, but what would be the point? It wasn't like it was some big secret. "I want to write greeting cards," I replied as I watched the top of his head. He looked up at me with an unfathomable expression. Then he leaned around the obstruction of the easel, giving me his undivided attention.
    "Why?"
    If he'd laughed, I would've ignored him. If he'd snickered, I would've cussed him out. But he hadn't done either of those things. His demeanor was unpredictable. He'd plainly asked, and I felt his question pulling my response from within the deepest parts of me. That simple, one-word question shouldn't have been easy to answer. The topic was always hard for me, but in this moment, it was real. Easy. "My sister always loved them. She used to save all the ones she'd get and hang them on our bedroom wall. It didn't matter how basic or elaborate they were, she'd save them. But she always wanted me to make special ones for her. Even before I could write. I'd fold up paper and draw squiggle lines for words and tell her what it said." I half smiled and looked down at my hands. "She'd save those too."
    "What happened to her?" My head popped up, and I gaped at him. "You said she loved them. Not love. Past-tense." He shrugged, but it wasn't a rude gesture, just matter-of-fact. I could tell him I killed her. I knew it was the truth, but I didn't want to. Not because I was worried what he'd think of me, or because it was too personal, but because I just didn't want to. Saying that didn't feel right for some reason.
    "She died."
    "That sucks." He turned back to his artwork, and I barked out a laugh I quickly stifled. It hadn't been a heart-felt condolence or an awkward comment some people make when faced with the topic of death. It was totally unexpected.
    And slightly refreshing if I were being honest.
    I heard him chuckling behind his canvas before he looked at me with twinkling eyes. "Sorry. I probably should've said something more..."
    "Apologetic?" I offered when he struggled to finish.
    "Yeah. But it does suck."
    I smiled at him. "Yeah, it sucked." It was odd how that description was both fitting, yet hugely understated. "That's why I go by Liv now. Because it’s not what she called me."
    "That's deep." His phone beeped, and he looked down at it. He narrowed his eyes and muttered something that sounded like, "Women."
    "Girlfriend?" I asked, partially relieved with the easy subject change.
    His gaze cut to me, a smile playing at his lips. "Hell no. I don't date."
    "I think that's the smartest thing that's come out of your mouth." I refrained from pointing out that I would know since he’d already gone on about everything under the sun.
    He laughed out loud, then quickly stopped, looked over his easel, and apologized to the instructor. He looked back at me. "Don't get me in trouble," he hissed playfully. "I'm in enough trouble as it is."
    I rolled my eyes and shifted the book closer to inspect the