We sat in my living room, which I cleaned while Elliot kept working in her room. I laid out the stories I wanted to share with Itra on the coffee table. She read, and I sat down with my laptop. I kept the digital copies of the stories, in case Itra had corrections for me. She also had a red pen to mark points she found on the papers. Her red pen moved a lot more than I wished it would.

She smiled. “Your writing hasn’t really changed much, huh,” she commented.

“I…I wish that weren’t the case,” I mumbled.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Itra replied, “It just brings back memories.”

Itra returned the first story to me. There was as much red ink as there was black. A little bit of dread hung on to me, but…some part of me couldn’t wait to read through her notes in the margins.

“I’ve noticed your story still has a lot of the same problems as before,” Itra pointed out, “You still don’t explain the setting very well.”

“I…yeah,” I looked around the room. From the window, to my left, and the kitchen, to my left, I didn’t know what to remark on. “I don’t know how that works still.”

“Hm…maybe I should do a second lesson on it?” Itra pondered.

“Sorry if this wasn’t how you wanted to spend your vacation,” I blurted, “Grading me and reading papers like a teacher…”

“What? Oh, no, it’s okay,” Itra assured, “...I enjoy this anyways.”

Itra reached into her bag and brought out a blank piece of paper. Giving me her pen, she told me, “I have an idea.” She grabbed her phone and started scrolling through her picture gallery. Placing the phone in front of me, I saw a picture of trees.

“Describe it,” Itra instructed, “and say more than just, ‘a picture of trees.’”

A part of me wonders, sometimes, how she knew I’d describe her photo that way. Either way, I needed to figure out a better way to describe the picture.

“Wait, why do you have a picture of trees?” I questioned, “Do you just…take photos of forests?”

“Use your imagination,” Itra replied, “I can tell you after.”

And, so, I was left with my task. As I began writing, Itra circled the coffee table and sat herself beside me. Just a couple centimeters away, I could almost feel her, as she peeked at my writing. I did my best to focus on the phone screen.

I noted the color of the bark, the state of the branches, and the lush grass on the ground. The shadows behind the trees intrigued me, so I included those in my writing. Before I could finish, though, Itra interrupted me.

“Stop,” she said, “...I think we should try something different.”

“Huh?” I stopped.

“One thing you should know about narrating, is that you usually describe things that matter to your main character,” Itra explained, “so, just giving you a photo to talk about feels kind of…lazy.”

“Is it really?” I questioned, “What else should I do then?”

“I’m thinking…remember that one time I set up the picnic blanket in the park? I think you should keep the lesson in mind,” Itra replied, “We should try something like that again.”

Right, the park study session we had, the first time we ever met outside school. I recalled biking there, and finding her setting up her papers for me.

“Here, I want you to know, that descriptive writing has a lot to do with the perspective lesson we had that day,” Itra shared, “when you go into depth about something, it’s usually because it holds importance.”

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Itra brought out the binder I gave her before she moved away.

“I brought this just in case,” she said. “Here, let’s take a look at what you wrote for our old lesson.”

She flipped through the papers, some of which I noticed red ink on. Apparently she had been writing notes on how I could improve in her free time in the Forgotten City.

“Your first attempt went like so:”

In front of me was a very kind and considerate friend, looking up at me. We sat in a park, surrounded by forestry, having a picnic together. Our basket sat open, as I held out a utensil to be consumed by her. The sky shone a beautiful blue, and the sun glared at us with a passion.

Reading my writing out loud, Itra snickered by the part I said, “utensil to be consumed.” I remembered how awkwardly I felt when sitting down with her. The embarrassment from back then burned strongly again, and my ears changed color to show it.

Regaining her bearings, Itra went back into teaching mode. “When you put in obvious effort to explain the surroundings, it sometimes comes out awkwardly like that.”

Itra flipped through my newer stories and related them. “Other times, you spend so little effort, that the world seems so empty.”

“I…I don’t know, it just seems to be so hard to write descriptions,” I explained, “I just don’t know how to.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for,” Itra reassured me, “Here, take a look at the second thing you wrote during our study in the park.”

Encircled by trees and gazed upon by a forgivingly clear sky, I shared a picnic with the best friend I’ve ever had. Birds flocked into the trees, and sang songs in her presence. Apparently, her compassion, beauty, and intelligence reached even the birds, as they sang their mating calls. Though those birds better know their place, because I’m the only one that can spoon feed her in such a loving manner.

My ears tainted red again, embarrassed from the content, rather than the grammar of what I wrote. I excused myself by saying it was to describe her based on the paper she drew.

“You got really bold with this one,” Itra said as she covered her mouth and laughed a little, “That’s when things started to flow pretty well.”

I averted my gaze from both Itra and the binder, not wanting to show the conflict on my face. Even if writing boldly made my words flow better, I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed.

“Hey, there’s no need to be embarrassed,” cooed Itra, “You don’t need to be shy around me, right? I’ve seen this already.”

Itra had a point. I already gave her all the little journal-like writing I made about the times we spent together. It was too late for me to be shy now.

“You’re right,” I admitted, “I guess I’ll try not to act embarrassed.”

She slid me another piece of paper. “Good,” she replied, “then you can write me another bold little story.”

“A-another one?” I questioned, “What do I write?”

“This one,” Itra instructed, and sat herself next to me, “let your imagination run wild, but make sure you keep good track of perspective and description.”

“...All right,” I accepted, “I’ll start then.”

When I wrote my better version in the park with Itra, I drew on my experience writing about the days we spent together. I decided to do the same, and I let the pencil Itra write smoothly. A story soon came together.

Just a centimeter away, she peered over my shoulder as I wrote. We sat at my coffee table, cleaned intensely for the occasion. I wanted to present my small home to her in the best way possible. The living room I once toddled in now served to entertain my friend. I really missed her. I wanted to see her bright little smile again.

“Done,” I announced, and handed the paper to Itra, quickly, before I could second-guess my writing. Immediately after surrendering the paper, the boldness I imitated left me. Anxiety settled in its place.

Itra silently began reading. As her eyes traced the lines on the paper, I held my hands close to my chest. I kept my heartbeat steady that way. Itra’s lips parted, gradually, into a smile. She covered her mouth with her hand.

“I-I think you did well,” she concluded, and placed the paper on the coffee table. “You don’t need to use the word, ‘really,’ though. It’s redundant.”

Accepting her feedback, I erased the word from the paper.

“Hey,” Itra poked my arm, so I turned to face her. “I missed you too.”

I thought I felt my heart melt, sitting there, with her. We both stayed silent for a little while, but Itra stood up, breaking my trance.

“It’s about time for me to go for today,” Itra lamented, “I had fun today, I can’t wait to see you again tomorrow.”

“Y-yeah, I had fun too,” I responded, “Where should we meet next time?”

“How about the Hangman Cafe?” Itra suggested, “Bring your laptop, I’ll probably have some more ideas there.”

Itra picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulders, and looped her arms through its straps. She waved to me, before opening the door and leaving.

I stayed by the table for a while before finally gathering all my papers. I kept the piece I just wrote on top.