I CAN'T HATE YOU!

Maya.

As we stepped into the dimly lit wine cellar, the air was cool and fragrant, mingling the scent of aged oak barrels with the earthy aroma of cork and time.

My dearest cousin, Andrew, leaned casually against one of the towering racks filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly when asked if he knew what kind of wine his mom wanted for her birthday toast as if he were indifferent to the task at hand.

"How should I know?" he muttered under his breath, the words barely escaping his lips. I groaned and buried my face in my hands, feeling a familiar wave of exasperation wash over me. It's amazing how his presence seems to drain my intellect like a leaky faucet.