He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue worlds of his eyes, eagerly and confidently.

These were not Ink’s words. They were the words of another author, long dead, but still alive in his works that stood the test of time. It had been these words that had sparked Ink’s thirst for the romance genre; it had detailed so cleanly, so simply, the youthfulness of one, young child actress as she fell in love with a man much more refined and much more experienced.

Ink aspired to be much like that writer, even though she knew reasonably that not many could top him. Not many could top that entire generation of writers, anyway; they were two generations behind yet years ahead of them, and they knew the core of the human spirit like no one else did or ever could.

Ink ran those words through her mind over and over again, partly because she loved them, partly because she thought they were a good sentence together to remember. It may not have been the first sentence of that particular novel, but it was the first sentence that confirmed the start of a love affair.

That Monday morning, December 8th, she decided was a good morning to try something like that: the first sentence to start the story of a burgeoning relationship. After she’d eaten breakfast and had prepped for school, she took out her notebook. It was filled with various scripts, scenes, half-sentences and full sentences, none of which connected or tried to make a cohesive story. She sat down on her bed and began to experiment.

She was drowning in his sea of green.

“No, that’s too morbid.”

The moment they locked eyes, she knew he was the one.

“That sounds cliche…”

She knew she loved him; he didn’t.

“That could work…”

She tried a dozen of those sentences; only some felt they had some substance to them. By the time she’d crossed out the twelfth one, she’d noticed that it was nearing the time for the bus to arrive.

“I guess this’ll have to wait till later,” she murmured.

But she couldn’t feel down for long. After all, today was the day she’d begin her (quickly, she searched for the best term) “case study,” or, in this case, her “couples study.” Artifex had agreed to see if he could convince his friends who were in a relationship to offer her their advice. She thought she could get someone else’s help, too, but she refrained from thinking anything definitive until she knew for certain. Briefly she wondered if she ought to ask people who were single what they thought had to go in a relationship, but then she dismissed the thought entirely; what could they know, since they were like her, single and ready to mingle (and torture herself with writing?)

She closed her notebook and grabbed her belongings. Her novel’s potential first sentences rang through her head as she raced out the door.

It was cold. She’d expected as such. Her down jacket kept her warm enough, but the wind was bitter and it bit at her nose and cheeks. Her face flushed. She walked with her hood up, a scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, and she wondered if she should invest in some of those balaclava masks or a ski mask or some sort of face-covering. Her lilac skin could only take so much, after all.

She walked up to the bus stop and waited there, her breath coming out as nebulous clouds. There was no one else at her stop, as was usual. She wouldn’t have minded the company.

The bus came quickly, rolling on muddy wheels and looking at least a decade old. It lurched as it came to a stop. She got on it and made her way to the back and sat down; then the bus took off. It would be a good twenty minutes before she got to school.

She watched the world through her window. The snow-covered trees and signs and homes became blurry manifestations of themselves. There were some people on the sidewalks, wrapped in their winter clothes; she could not see their faces. Some people had out Christmas decorations already, reminding her again of how close the holiday was. She tried to open her mind, to let the environment around her flow into her, but that was hard to do because the radio was loud and it wasn’t playing any sort of ambient music and the students around and in front of her were all loud and that was annoying—

The bus hit the brakes so hard she was slammed face-first into the seat in front of her. She pulled back and felt her face; nothing seemed broken, but tears had reflexively gathered in her eyes. She wiped them away, muttering a low remark, something about how “I could drive better than this…”

She leaned back, propping her legs up so that she wouldn’t be propelled forward, and she looked out the window again, saw the world, and tried to force herself to be inspired.

But the windows blocked whatever winds of creativity there might have been from entering.

Maybe I’ll find inspiration here, she thought as she disembarked off the bus. Canterlot High loomed ahead. Its doors were open and students from various backgrounds pooled into it. She caught a glimpse of Artifex on the way in, his yellow jacket flashing; he was gone before she had thought to call for him.

I’ll see him in first block anyway.

The school had salted the land so that the snow would more easily melt. Careful not to slip, Ink walked ahead, doing her best not to bump into anyone along the way. “ ‘Scuse me, pardon me, excuse me,” she muttered.

Her efforts were, however, not completely without fault. Someone slipped next to her, and she had to half-jump out of the way, and she bumped into someone taller than her. They both grunted and fell out of the crowd.

Ink was the first on her feet. “Oh, gosh, I am so sorry! Wait…” Her face scrunched up; then her eyes widened. “Big Mac?”

Much like how he was on Saturday, he was not dressed in any particularly heavy clothes. Save for a green scarf that was wrapped around his neck, he appeared more-or-less the same. Recognition shone in his ripe-green eyes. “Eeyup. Howdy, Ink.”

She helped him to his feet, though, seeing how big and muscular he was, she doubted he really needed her help. “Sorry about that,” she repeated, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly.

“ ‘S no problem,” Mac said, giving her a kind smile. “Hope Ah didn’t hurt ya.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t.” She paused. She didn’t like that she paused; it was too sudden and too awkward and this silence was too heavy so she thought she ought to fill that silence— “Um, listen,” she forced herself to say. “Th-thanks again for, you know, that suggestion of yours. The one you gave at the Corner.”

She thought she saw a light pinkness to his cheeks, but seeing his skin was peach-colored, there probably wasn’t anything there. “Ya already thanked me,” he said.

“Oh.” Great; a writer, speechless. “U-uh, I’m gonna do it today. It. The thing. The suggestion. Your suggestion. Yeah.” If she wasn’t already red-cheeked from the cold, now she was sure her face was like a tomato.

But Big Mac didn’t seem to mind. He nodded to her. “That’s good. Hope it goes well.”

“Y-yeah.”

Another silence. Another bout of silent, personal cursing. It was broken seconds after—too many seconds after, she thought—by the bell.

“Uh, I guess I, uh, gotta go. Yeah. Um… talk to you later?”

Mac blinked, then smiled. “Sure thing, Ink.”

“A-awesome. Uh—bye!”

She didn’t offer a handshake, much less a wave, and she only realized that by the time she was going up the steps. She turned to rectify that mistake, but he was already gone. She sighed, not sure why she felt so disappointed by that. Way to go, Ink…

That disappointment only continued to grow and compound even as her first class neared its end. Amidst the room full of students diligently working on an assignment, Ink found her thoughts pressing terribly against her mind. They pooled around, slowly and hot, like lava coming richly from an erupting volcano. They threatened to spill out all over the paper in long, flowing strokes of black ink, spilling left to right, up and down, until—of this she was certain—they’d cover the entire page with nothing but smudges and half-coherent sentences.

No one noticed her growing frustration, her anxiety, her growing sense of becoming over-encumbered by herself. Not even Artifex but, to be fair, he was two seats away from her. She was praying for the bell to ring so that she might escape; she hated being cooped up at a desk, not her desk—because that was different somehow—and having her thoughts always keeping her on edge. She couldn’t even remember what the assignment was or had been or what it was supposed to be.

When the bell did mercifully ring, it seemed so far away. She had to literally gasp for breath to bring her back from the brink. This time, Artifex noticed, as did a girl who sat between them.

“Huh?” the girl asked as Artifex made his way over. “What’s up with you?”

Ink recognized her as Rainbow Dash, the main guitarist of their school’s signature band (aptly named The Rainbooms, winner of the last and only Battle of the Bands, yada-yada-yada). “Oh, it’s, um, nothing, Rainbow.”

“That didn’t look like ‘nothing.’ ” This, predictably, was from Artifex, who stood a little ways in front of her. “Still frustrated?”

“Frustrated?” Rainbow asked. “Well, I guess this assignment was kind of hard…”

There were still students packing up to leave, and Ink was desperate to join them. She stood, closing her books and binder, pushing them into her backpack, praying they’d stay silent or at least that her thoughts would.

“But not too hard,” Artifex said. “I mean, it’s just the rough draft.”

“Well, you’d find that stuff easy,” Rainbow replied.

“So would Ink here, usually.”

Oh, God, why did he have to say that? Why did his gaze have to pierce her so easily? Why did he have to see when she felt troubled?

Ink let out a groan—it was louder than she’d expected, filled with disgust (a rather unhealthy amount), and she covered her face in shining embarrassment.

“Is everything okay over there?” Mr. Solil called.

Mr. Solil. I’ll have to keep him in mind. “Yeah, we’re good!” she called back, trying to sound reassuring.

Rainbow now stood, giving her a worrisome look. “Ink, you sure you’re okay? You’ve been in a pretty crappy mood as of late.”

Artifex grunted. “Not the way I would have put it. She’s not crappy, Rainbow; she’s frustrated.”

“Yeah?” Rainbow paused. “Is it… you know—”

“No!” Ink protested. “No, that’s not until—nevermind that. Look, Rainbow, it’s nothing, and even if it were something, I don’t think you’d be able to help.”

“What?! Why not?”

“It’s just… you’re… you, and this… this needs not you.”

“Ink,” Artifex chided, “you need all the help you can get.”

“She’s not dating anyone, though!”

“Neither am I.”

“Which is why I’m not turning to you for advice on romance!”

Rainbow cut in, “Whoa, whoa. What’s this about romance?”

Oh, God damn it. “N-nothing—”

“Ink, come on,” Artifex said. “You really don’t need to be embarrassed about this. We’re all friends here.”

The room was quickly emptying, and Ink could hear the pounding of footsteps as other students approached. Artifex noted her noticing. “We’ll continue this outside,” he said, before walking—cane in hand—out, and Rainbow followed after him.

Ink got out of her seat and made her way to the door, but she stopped, getting caught in the pensive gaze of Mr. Solil. He regarded her silently, and she gulped, not sure why she felt nervous. After all, this was Mr. Solil, one of the nicest teachers in the school. He didn’t say anything, though; he nodded, a sign she was free to go, and she offered a cordial wave in return before finally stepping out.

Now re-joined outside, they trudged through the hall, cutting through the crowd as best they could. “So you gonna tell us what’s up?” Rainbow asked.

Ink took a deep breath. “Yeah, sorry for exploding on you, Rainbow.” The athlete waved her off, and she continued, “See, I’m having trouble writing my romance novel; I can’t get the right words out. And Artifex and Big Mac—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up. Big Mac? Giving you advice on romance?”

“We met him in Sugarcube Corner on Saturday,” Artifex explained. “He was getting stuff for Granny Smith.”

“Anyway,” Ink said, “basically they said I should ‘study’ people more. Don’t give me that look; yes, I know, it sounds dumb. But it might work. I hope it works.”

“Study how?” Rainbow asked. They rounded a corner.

Ink fought her blush down and said, “W-well, I was gonna go around and ask the school’s couples for advice… not, like, relationship advice! I mean, like—” She paused, running her hands through her short hair. “I guess their thoughts on what a relationship is. Y’know? Like… what love is, or, like how you know you’re in love. Things that would make a fictional romance real, y’know?”

Rainbow said she did know, and she added that she could help out if Ink wanted. “I know a lot of people in a relationship; in fact, Artifex and I have the same friend group. So, if you want, you could come by during lunch today and we could getcha started on a, whaddyacallit, ‘interview.’ ”

Ink turned to her. “Really? You mean it?”

“Sure! Anything to help a friend!”

It was then, though, that Artifex and Rainbow had to leave; their classes were on the next floor. “Feel free to stop by,” Artifex said to Ink as he and Rainbow bounded up the steps.

“Y-yeah! I will!” she called. “Thank you!”

She said it a bit late. They were already gone from her view. She felt a bit embarrassed at her late response, but figured that was okay; they heard her, probably. She twirled on her heels and walked the opposite way.