The way it's all such a cliché makes Lisa want to claw her eyes out.

Photographs and prints of her work in different sizes are scattered around her. The underside of her legs become numb from the cold ceramic floor and her own weight - elbows resting on thighs, sitting cross-legged in the middle of her room.

There is a deadline looming above her head, seconds ticking by.

She has less than 2 hours to decide which of these photos should be included in her finals portfolio - which photos would secure her passing grades and a ticket to graduation.

She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth.

Dammit.

She still has to stuff these into a brown envelope and make a mad dash to the faculty building to submit them.

Less than two hours and the clock is ticking.

Then she hears a sigh come from the person behind her and then feels someone rest their back against hers, as if she was the top-half part of a velvet chaise lounge.

Rosie stretches her arms above her head then groans.

“I hate finals week.”

Lisa chuckles.

And suddenly the ten other things Lisa's supposed to do, disappears from the forefront of her mind, easily slipping to the back on tiny wheels.

Rosie was also working on something - a painting she had to submit to a major art class as her final output. There were tubes of different shades of gray scattered on the floor.

Everyone else in Rosie’s class was working on something colorful. She was too indie to follow the trend, of course, so the little rebel decided to swim against the tide and make a black and white impressionist oil painting of - and get this - her goldfish.

(Of course, no one would be able to tell it’s a goldfish, since it’s black and white, Lisa had so helpfully pointed out the obvious to her, earlier.

But that’s where the fun is, Rosie just reasoned. I want to be able to paint a goldfish that anyone would be able to tell it’s a goldfish even if it’s in black and white. That’s SKILL. That’s AHRT. Rosie had replied.

Lisa just scratched her head and shrugged.)

Rosie stays there, most of her body weight against Lisa. The photographer twists her body and turns. Rosie lifts herself with two palms against the floor before slumping back against her best friend.

Lisa finds blonde hair and the shell of her best friend’s left ear, all shoved in her face.

She chuckles. She looks at Rosie’s face, studies her expression.

Rosie has her eyes closed and lips in a pout.

Sometimes her best friend’s antics make Lisa think she’s just trying to be cute.

There’s barely any space between them so Lisa whispers, certain that Rosie would hear it.

“You stressed out and tired?”

Rosie just hums.

Lisa’s left hand absentmindedly reaches up to knead Rosie’s left shoulder. She massages the spots that are tense, the places Rosie complains about a lot and aches when she paints for too long.

Rosie sighs with a smile, muscles relaxing under Lisa’s fingers.

“Nice backrest you got, huh?” Lisa teases.

“Yep.” Rosie pops the ‘p’ with her lips and grins, eyes still closed. “Gives great massages, too.”

“Does she?” Lisa asks, voice soft.

But before Rosie’s grin can grow wider and give her another “yep,” Lisa blows air into Rosie’s ear, making her up straight with a squeal - arms flailing and shoulders rising in an attempt to shield her ears from further assault.

Lisa cackles loudly, falling to the floor, on top of her prints.

“Lisa!!” Rosie whines. She turns around, pivoting on her to face her prankster of a best friend and roommate, and gives her a kick bereft of any real force that could hurt - y’know, a kick but just in principle.

Lisa’s laughter dies down to little chuckles to a -eating grin. She turns around and lays down starfish on top of her works. She takes a moment to breathe in some much-needed oxygen, her lungs being deprived of it from laughing too hard.

Really, after all these years, Rosie should have known better than to leave her openings for any attack.

A few beats pass.

“Ah, Rosie!” It was now Lisa’s turn to whine.

“What?” Rosie asks, annoyed.

Lisa knows it’s all pretense, though, and can’t help a small smile slip. But she drops it quickly for a pout, remembering that she was about to complain to her friend.

“I can’t decide which photos are the best ones for my portfolio.” Lisa responds, still on top of the said photos. “I have to pass it in-” Lisa reaches for her phone on the floor right beside her head, presses the lock button on the side to light the screen up, “one and a half hour.” She finishes with a huff.

“WHAT?!”

Rosie jumps up and turns around to look at the mess her roommate is.

“You have a deadline THAT close and you’re still lying down on your plates?!” The blonde’s voice is two octaves higher than her normal speaking voice, tone dramatic as if to convey that she is absolutely incredulous and aghast.

Lisa just whines some more.

“I don’t know which ones to choose!” She offers up as justification, as if it was a valid reason for toeing the deadline.

“Move!” Rosie kicks her again, still without force and more like a nudge to make her move away from her prints. “I’ll choose them for you.”

Lisa just does two full rolls to the side, compliant but still staying on the floor.

Rosie puts a finger to her chin, scanning the photos with her eyes, examining each critically and making sure to utilize everything she knew about art.

Then, a slow, toothless smile spreads on her face - the kind that reaches her eyes and turns them into little crescents, the kind that makes her cheeks bunch up on both sides of her face, the kind that holds a genuine and soft kind of happiness.

Lisa wishes she had her camera with her to capture that moment. But all she could do was subconsciously mirror it with a smile of her own - equally soft.

“Aww, Lisa,” Rosie tucks her chin to her chest, still smiling.

But the corners of Rosie’s smile has blurred into shy and there is a dusting of pink on the tips of her ears and cheeks.

“What?” Lisa asks.

And in a timid voice, Rosie answers.

“These photos are mostly of me.”

The blonde’s words were mumbled, as if tumbling over each other because they were pushed out and then scrambling to return back behind her lips.

Lisa just chuckles.

“Well, what can I say…”

Lisa starts, looking into Rosie’s eyes. She was about to say one of the cheesiest yet most honest things she’ll ever say and she wanted to make sure that it has as much impact as it can and leaves an impression.

Rosie raises an eyebrow.

“I like capturing pretty things through my lenses - and you are, by far, my most favorite subject.”

There’s no way to describe how Rosie’s blush deepens, her smile growing wider yet at the same time becoming even more shy.

But it’s pretty and Lisa wants to capture it again.

Oh well. She’ll have to settle for making sure she makes Rosie smile like that again when she has her camera in her hands.

It's all such a cliché really.

Rosie was her best friend and roommate. She was a double major for fine art and music. She was blonde and dainty and fair and tall and slender. She wore high waisted pants and skinny jeans and stan smiths and sweaters with only the front tucked in. She refuses to wear her prescription glasses and only wears it in their dorm room, when her eyes are too exhausted for contacts.

And Lisa was the photography major and dance troupe captain who was absolutely smitten with her.