Morning came too quickly.
I woke up, then froze instantly when I noticed someone lying beside me.
Raymond.
My heart skipped.
What is he doing here? When did he arrive? And how did I not know?
These were all questions he could answer-so why was I interrogating myself?
I tapped him and when he didn't budge, I shook him really hard.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded. "When did you arrive? And how did I not know?"
My face was barely a centimeter from his-close enough that my horrid morning breath should've been considered a crime.
He groaned. "Good morning to you too, Aubrey."
"Sorry," I muttered. "Good morning."
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I came to escort you to the airport. I arrived around four a.m. Also, you were snoring like a wild animal, so there's no way you heard the door open."
"I snore?!" I gasped. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Raymond and I have been inseparable since childhood, and somehow, we still are-despite how quickly time seems to be passing. I'm twenty-four now. He's twenty-five.
Our parents knew each other far too well, and from the moment we could write, we were inseparable. Same dreams. Same taste in clothes. Same ambitions. Same everything-except one thing.
Honesty.
I told Raymond everything. Every thought. Every fear.
Him? He couldn't even tell me about my bad quality.
As kids, we took turns reading stories to each other-our terrible, chaotic, absolutely flop-worthy stories. Looking back now, they've turned out to be hilarious. But even then, we were serious about writing.
We went to the same college. The same university. Studied the same thing-literary works.
We even started a ridiculous competition: whoever lost had to give the winner a piggyback ride. It always ended in a fight because neither of us would accept defeat.
By seventeen and eighteen, we were writing children's books. Even then, my stories leaned tragic-loss, longing, quiet endings. Raymond's were the opposite: princesses, hope, happily-ever-afters.
When we finished a story, we'd show our parents, and they'd smile proudly, always saying the same thing:
"This has potential."
One day, my mom showed our work to her friend Agnes-coincidentally, a well-known children's book author. She passed it to her child, who devoured it and came back full of praise.
That's how it started.
We worked under Agnes for years, learning everything we could. And when she finally retired-five years later-she handed the company to us.
Just like that.
Two childhood friends. One company. One shared dream.
"Ohhh, don't be like that. I've told you like a billion times-you're just difficult," he said, yawning.
"Ohhh, am I now?" I shot him a glare. "Well, here's your flaw. You sleep with your eyes slightly open. When I woke up and saw you, I thought you were already awake and staring at me." I grinned.
"You know what I think?" he asked.
"What do you think?" I raised a brow.
"I think you're making things up because you're offended. But honestly, it's normal to snore." He smirked. "After all, you've always been my baby pig."
"And someone calls me difficult?" I muttered, standing up and stretching before heading to the kitchen to make us breakfast.
"Hey! Come back here Miss!" he yelled, following me. "I forgot to mention your other flaws-like that horrid breath you nearly murdered me with when you shoved your face in mine!"
"It's called morning breath," I said over my shoulder. "And you almost killed me with yours too, so we're even. Also, I'm making breakfast so I can book that flight."
"Well then," he said dramatically, "I'm going to freshen up before eating." He paused, then smiled. "I'm really proud of you."
"What?!" I turned, startled.
"Normally, you'd ruin my morning by tapping aggressively on your laptop. Or, if I wasn't around, you'd video-call me just to show off a new idea. But today is not like that and to top it off you're actually willing to go on this vacation."
He left before I could respond.
I stood there for a moment, thinking about his words. And surprisingly... I was proud of myself too. He was right. Normally, my mornings began with typing or talking about stories.
But today was different.
I felt relaxed.
I felt cheerful.
And for once, I wasn't thinking about writing at all.