Chapter 9
1384 Words
Club Room – Paper scraps, open laptops, and empty coffee cups littered the long table. Everyone was scattered—some cutting signage, others wrestling with spreadsheet edits—but there was a strange stillness in the air.
Ryan looked up from his screen. “Isn’t it a little... calm?”
Eli didn’t even glance up from where he was rearranging flyers. “Disturbingly so? Yeah. Probably because Sunshine isn’t here to laser-glare us into submission. Where's the scary-smart poetry girl?”? ”
Ryan shot him a sideways glance. “Not Sunshine.”
Eli looked up, one brow raised.
Ryan leaned back slightly, eyes thoughtful. “She’s more like a firefly. Doesn’t shine to light up everyone else’s world. She just… glows. Quietly. On her own terms.”
Eli paused mid-flyer-fold. “That is... the biggest poetic statement I’ve ever heard from you.”
Ryan stayed silent, chewing his pen cap.
Eli leaned forward with a grin. “And for who? Raya Smith?? Oh, sorry—Firefly now?”
Ryan rolled his eyes, though not convincingly. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re in so much denial.”
They exchanged a mock glare before Eli snorted and went back to work.
But Ryan’s gaze lingered on his phone.
He hesitated—thumb hovering, deleting one version of a message, rewriting another.
First draft:
"Hey, finished the list. Everything okay?"
Delete.
Second draft:
"Raya, vendor list's good. Also, where are you?"
Delete.
Final version:
Ryan: [Update: Vendor list is done. Eli says—and I quote—“where’s scary-smart poetry girl?”]
A pause.
Then his phone buzzed.
Raya: [Scary-smart? He’s not wrong.
Tell him I’m recharging my soul with caffeine and sarcasm. Fueling up before we return to the chaos.]
Ryan’s lips twitched.
Ryan: [You’re missing the chaos. It’s quieter without your death stares.]
Raya: [Don’t get used to it.]
Ryan: [Wouldn’t dare.]
Eli looked up suspiciously. “You’re smiling.”
Ryan calmly looked back at his screen. “No, I’m not.”
“Liar.”
“Go fold your flyers.”
Club Room – Later That Evening.
The door creaked open just enough for a voice to slip through.
Raya: “Before anyone asks—yes, I’m caffeinated. Yes, I’m mentally prepared. No, I don’t regret ignoring your thirty-two messages.”
She stepped in, flanked by Tessa and Hana, who trailed behind, arms full of printed schedules and snack bags.
Eli, dramatically, gasped. “Scary-smart poetry girl returns! The prophecy is fulfilled.”
Ryan didn’t even look up from his laptop. “We only messaged you once.”
Raya: “Same energy.”
Tessa: “We brought snacks. And sanity. You’re welcome.”
Hana, more shyly: “And uh... extra highlighters? In case anyone has violent color-coding tendencies?”
Ryan’s eyes flicked up, amused. “You’ll fit right in.”
Eli, nudging Ryan with a grin: “Your Firefly has landed.”
Ryan, without missing a beat: “So have you, apparently, on the edge of death.”
Eli: “It’s been hours, man. We’ve been working. Do you know how many passive-aggressive emails I’ve had to edit? I’m seeing bullet points in my dreams.”
Tessa tossed a stress ball at him. “Dream faster. We’re behind on the poetry booth setup.”
Raya, dropping her bag: “Okay, what’s the damage?”
Ryan, smoothly: “Nothing a miracle—or twenty capable hands—won’t fix.”
Hana looked around, already reaching for a set of unfinished flyers. “Do we each count as four hands? Because I’d like to contribute but I also might cry if someone yells.”
Raya, patting her back dramatically: “We only cry during budget meetings here. You’re safe.”
They all settled in, the chaos slowly reigniting.
Eli glanced once at Hana across the table, catching her quietly organizing the vendor forms without being asked.
She didn’t say much—just highlighted, sorted, and scribbled little notes with a kind of silent efficiency that oddly soothed the room. Her brows furrowed like she was solving ancient riddles, and for a moment, Eli forgot how to spell “booth.”
Tessa leaned toward Raya, whispering behind her palm, “Is it just me, or is Eli acting like a Victorian boy catching feelings in a library?”
Raya bit back a laugh. “He’s blinking a lot. That’s suspicious.”
Eli, loudly: “I can hear you both. And for the record, I’m allergic to feelings. And libraries.”
Ryan, eyes still on his screen: “You’re also allergic to responsibilities, but here we are.”
Hana looked up, blinking. “Wait—are you guys always like this?”
Raya, deadpan: “Unfortunately.”
Eli smiled, scratching the back of his neck. “You’ll get used to it. Maybe. If you survive.”
Hana, matching the tone without missing a beat: “Oh good. I’ve always wanted to join a chaotic cult.”
Ryan, smirking: “Congratulations. You’re officially initiated.”
Just then, Hana reached over to Ryan’s side of the table to grab a marker, brushing against his arm casually.
It was nothing dramatic—but the way Ryan didn't move, and how her hand lingered for a fraction too long, caught Tessa’s attention.
Her gaze sharpened. She looked from Hana to Ryan and back again.
Tessa, hesitantly: “So... you two know each other well?”
Ryan leaned back slightly, one brow raised. “You could say that.”
Hana: “We go... way back.”
Raya looked up too, curiosity flickering—but Ryan had already redirected the conversation.
Ryan: “Okay, focus. Booth set-up. We need someone to charm the poetry guy into accepting a smaller table.”
Raya: “You’re charming. Go do it.”
Ryan: “I’m immune to poets. They throw metaphors instead of logic.”
Hana, sweetly: “I could try. I’m good at bargaining. Or pretending to be confused until people give up.”
Eli: “Iconic.”
Tessa didn’t say anything, but her eyes lingered a second longer on the two of them. She didn’t know what was going on exactly—but she could feel a storm brewing under all that calm.
Hana approached the poetry booth with a confident stride, clutching the festival map and a hopeful smile.
Jasper, a lanky guy with wireframe glasses and a forever-pondering expression, was sitting behind a cluttered table filled with notebooks, coffee cups, and what looked like an entire library of metaphors.
Hana cleared her throat. “Hey, Jasper. So, about that vendor layout... any chance you’d consider a smaller table? The festival gods demand balance.”
Jasper looked up slowly, adjusting his glasses. “Balance, huh? You mean like the yin and yang of words and silence?”
Hana grinned. “Exactly. Plus, less space means more mystery. Like an unopened book—makes people curious.”
Jasper smirked. “You’re pitching a mystery novel wrapped in poetry. Intriguing.”
Hana, lowering her voice conspiratorially: “And between you and me, I heard the food trucks are handing out secret snacks. You want people wandering around, right?”
Jasper chuckled. “Ah, the lure of secret snacks. A true poetic muse.”
Hana tapped her chin thoughtfully. “So, we’re agreed?”
Jasper leaned back. “Fine. I’ll shrink the empire of verses to a humble corner. But only if you promise to bring me some of those secret muffins.”
Hana laughed. “Deal.”
Hana returned to the group with a victorious grin, waving the festival map like a trophy.
“Jasper’s on board,” she announced, breathless. “He agreed to shrink his poetry empire to a humble corner—on one condition.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Secret muffins,” Hana said with a wink. “Apparently, they’re the true poetic muse.”
Eli, overhearing from the side, smirked. “Muffins? Now that’s the kind of bargaining I respect.”
Raya rolled her eyes but smiled. “Well, mystery snacks and poetry—sounds like a winning combo.”
Ryan glanced at Eli and Hana. “Alright, muffin deal sealed. Let’s hope Jasper doesn’t turn into a poet-saint after sugar overload.”
Eli chuckled. “If he starts spitting metaphors, I’m blaming you.”
- Writer
