Crimson Bonds

3

Ignoring Every Omen

Peter is back behind the counter of the store. It's 10 P.M once more. Just another day in his monotonous life. He tries to focus on the thick book in his hands, something about international law and the interpretation of treaties between races. His favourite highlighter hovers over the page, but the words blur and dance, refusing to settle.

His thoughts are a mess. He keeps reliving the events of the day, no matter how hard he tries to push them away. That morning, Peter had marched onto campus, determined to talk to Theoden. But as soon as he spotted him, laughing and standing far too close to that Forest Nymph, something in him had snapped. He had called out, his voice cracking with desperation, but Theoden barely spared him a glance before taking the Nymph by the elbow and disappearing into a building. Peter's legs had itched to follow, but a security guard had blocked his path. Frustrated and humiliated, he'd texted Theoden, only to receive a cold, dismissive reply: sorry, I'm busy. can't talk.

Now, as he sits behind the counter, the memory stings like salt in a wound. His fist tightens around the highlighter, and he has to consciously loosen his grip before it snaps in two. He lets out a pitiful sigh, running a hand over his face. The store is empty, the cold seeping in through the thin walls. Outside, the wind howls, rattling the windows like a caged beast. His thin tail curls around his legs, seeking warmth, but all Peter feels is a deep, gnawing cold in his chest.

He leans back in his chair, his head falling against the wall, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. His breathing feels laboured, like there's a weight pressing down on his chest, drowning him in a sea of anxiety. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to push the feeling away, but it only grows stronger, suffocating him. The store's fluorescent lights flicker above, casting an eerie, pulsing glow that matches the throb in his temples.

He contemplates texting Anouk, just to break the cycle of his thoughts. But the mere sight of his phone, sitting next to his book, makes his throat tighten. He knows what will happen if he texts Theoden again—another rejection, another sharp twist of the knife already buried deep in his heart.

Peter sighs, a sound of utter exhaustion, and digs into his bag for his earphones. He needs a distraction, something to drown out the noise in his head. He scrolls through his music, finally settling on a soothing melody from his favourite singer. The music washes over him, dulling the edges of his pain, if only for a moment. He crosses his arms, pulling his sweater tighter around him, as if it could shield him from the world outside. The store feels like a tomb, cold and silent, the wind outside a relentless reminder of how isolated he is.

The door opens with a soft chime, but Peter barely registers it, lost in the music and his thoughts. It isn't until he hears a voice—low, soft, and utterly different from the singer's—that he cracks an eye open.

"Hello?"

Peter blinks, dragging himself back to the present. Saifa stands before him, holding the same bottle of fancy coffee as last time. Concern etches his features, his green eyes locked onto Peter's.

"Are you alright, mate?" Saifa asks, leaning slightly over the counter. The question, simple as it is, feels like an intrusion, and Peter instinctively pulls back. But Saifa smells good, a mix of green tea and lemon, and it keeps Peter from recoiling completely.

"'m fine," Peter mutters, his voice thick with fatigue. He takes the bottle from Saifa's hand and rings it up. "£1.80."

Saifa's gaze remains fixed on him, a mix of concern and scepticism. He hands over the exact change, but the transaction is secondary to the unspoken tension between them.