“I can’t believe you don’t like my hair,” Marin informed Maia, assuming a sulky expression - although he was clearly joking. “My hair is great, you need glasses.” Laughing, he dumped another sugar cube in his paper cup of coffee. A between classes catch up had been a good idea, he was laughing more around Maia already, less tense. “My mom misses you, you know? She’s like,” Marin assumed a strong French accent, “what happened to Maia? I loved Maia. Why can’t you be more like Maia, Marin?”