3. unpacking

Last night I decided to leave the unpacking to tomorrow me, however I was now regretting it. I tend to be a bit of a type A person, everything has a place and everything is organised, which is a drastic contrast to how most people see artists, if I can even call myself that yet. I woke up relatively early, grabbing my favourite mug out of the suitcase to make myself a cup of coffee before locking in to unpack my room.

As I reached my toiletries it was time to now tackle the situation of a shared bathroom, as soon as I entered I could almost scream, there was no organisation. I spent a solid hour cleaning and organising Hamzah and I's things in the bathroom.

It had now reached around noon and Hamzah had just woken up, I rolled my eyes at Hamzah as he shuffled into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair stuck up at odd angles under his beanie-why he was already wearing it first thing in the morning was beyond me-and he moved like someone who hadn't had nearly enough sleep.

"Coffee?" he mumbled, pointing at the mug in my hand. I sighed and grabbed another mug from the cupboard, filling it with the fresh pot I'd just brewed. "You're lucky I was in a good mood when I woke up. That bathroom nearly destroyed me." "Hey, I never asked you to clean it," he said, taking the mug from me. He sipped it and winced. "Is this... black coffee?" "Yes," I said, arching an eyebrow. "You're welcome to add sugar or milk if you can find it in your disaster of a kitchen."

Hamzah grimaced, but he didn't argue. Instead, he slumped into one of the chairs at the tiny dining table and propped his head on his hand, watching me as I finished organizing my unpacked toiletries on the counter. "So," he said after a moment, "are you always like this? All... 'everything in its place'?" I glanced over my shoulder at him. "Yes. It's called being functional." "Ah, see, that's where we differ," he said with a grin. "I thrive in chaos." "That explains a lot," I muttered under my breath,Hamzah laughed, loud and unbothered. "Alright, Type A. What's the plan for today? Besides color-coding your socks or whatever." "First of all, I don't color-code my socks," I said, turning to face him. "Second, I was thinking of exploring the city a bit. Getting my bearings before school starts." "Good call," he said, finishing his coffee in one long gulp. "But first, I need to do some filming with Martin. Wanna come?" "To your YouTube thing?" I asked skeptically. "Yeah," he said, brightening. "We're recording this, like... 'vlog of just being weird' thing. It's Martin's idea. I just do what he tells me and try not to embarrass myself too much." "I don't know..." I hesitated. "Come on," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "It'll be fun. Plus, you can see what we've been working on. Who knows, maybe you'll want to join in." "Join in?" I laughed. "I think I'll stick to painting, thanks." "Suit yourself," he said, standing and stretching. "But you're coming with us, whether you're on camera or not. It'll give you a chance to see the city." I sighed but relented. "Fine. But if this ends up being weird, I'm blaming you." "Deal," he said with a grin, already heading to his room to change.

Martin arrived about an hour later, lugging a camera bag and a tripod that looked as battered as Hamzah's apartment. He was taller than I expected, with a wiry build and a mop of curly hair that seemed to have a life of its own. He grinned when he saw me, his whole face lighting up.

"You must be Cora," he said, extending a hand. "Hamzah's been talking about you non-stop since you got here." "Oh, has he?" I said, shooting a glance at Hamzah, who was suddenly very interested in adjusting his beanie. "Only good things," Martin added quickly. "Mostly about how you're already cleaning up his life." "Someone has to," I said, shaking his hand. Martin laughed, then turned to Hamzah. "Alright, let's get going. We've got about three hours of light left, and I want to hit Kensington Market before it gets too crowded." "Kensington Market?" I asked as we stepped outside. "Yeah," Martin said, slinging the camera bag over his shoulder. "It's this artsy little area-lots of street art, cool shops, great people-watching. Perfect for filming."

As we walked, Martin filled me in on their channel. It was even more chaotic than Hamzah had let on. They'd done everything from food challenges to poorly planned skits, and video games."And people watch this?" I asked, half-joking. "People love watching other people fail," Hamzah said with a shrug. "It makes them feel better about their own lives." "Plus, we're hilarious," Martin added. "Debatable," I said, but I couldn't help smiling.

Kensington Market was exactly as Martin had described: vibrant, quirky, and bursting with life. Murals covered nearly every wall, and the streets were lined with vintage shops, food stalls, and vendors selling handmade jewelry.

Hamzah and Martin got to work immediately, setting up the tripod in the middle of the street and filming an introduction that was equal parts awkward and endearing.

"Alright," Martin said, turning the camera on Hamzah. "Tell the people what we're doing today." Hamzah blinked at the camera like a deer in headlights. "Uh... today, we're exploring Kensington Market! And, uh... trying not to spend all our money on food." Martin groaned. "Come on, man. Try again."

I watched from the sidelines, equal parts amused and impressed. For all their disorganization, they clearly cared about what they were doing, and their dynamic was infectious.

"Hey, Cora!" Martin called, waving me over. "Wanna be in the shot?" "No, thanks," I said quickly, holding up my hands. "I'm just here to observe." "Suit yourself," he said, turning back to Hamzah. "Alright, take two..."

As they filmed, I wandered a bit, taking in the sights and snapping a few photos on my phone. It wasn't until we were sitting at a taco stand an hour later, laughing over Hamzah's inability to pronounce quesadilla, that I realized I was having fun.