Turbulence | 𝙰 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 ✔

→ⅳ

I've been standing in the food court for a while now. It's loud and crowded. He's in my line of sight, seated at a small table with his back to me.

Elbows resting on the countertop, I wait for my mocha to be made. Against my body heat, the cold marble doesn't stand a chance. When my enemy is near, a spark comes to life at the bottom of my stomach. It glows red. Like the colour I want to see on his pale face when he's below me. And it sputters. Like the sound I want to hear him make when I take control. This spark, that has been stroked for years, is now a full-grown fire; no wonder I feel so hot when he's around.

The moment I see someone approaching Royu Snowdrop, I'm more surprised than I should be. It is a man; must be a bit older than us, he's wearing his cap backwards and sporting a tracksuit. They shake each other's hands.

Every other table in the food court is occupied—except for Royu Snowdrop's.

Scooping up my cup of coffee, I power-walk over to them. When, at the forceful motion, milk laps at my sweaty left-hand, I shift the cup to my right, and wipe the clammy one against my jeans.

Tracksuit goes silent the moment I take my place across from them. As if he's never shared a table with a stranger before. I don't know what his relationship with Royu Snowdrop is, but I do know that I don't care.

"Nah, no," I cross my legs, addressing Tracksuit. "Go back to the conversation you were having. I'll pitch in when I can."

Royu Snowdrop keeps his lips stapled. But the smile that he's trying not to smile, I feel, is bigger than any that has crossed his face before. Made of a whole bunch of papers that can't be held down by, of all things, a mere stapler. For a moment, I think I see his teeth. The fire in my stomach—it flares, flares, flares. And I glare, glare, glare. He stops smiling.

"I doubt you can pitch in. We were discussing Twisted Network." Tracksuit sits up straight to emphasise that he's looking down on me. He sneers. "Not a lot of people can contribute to a talk about that show."

This damn idiot. Did he bother to pick up the book before switching on the television? Because I did. And right now, I'm about to teach him a scathing lesson so that, from hereon, every time he's in the mood to act snooty, he'll think twice—like, maybe, just maybe, the short, skinny, curly-haired boy in front of me knows his stuff about history, and I shouldn't go assuming that he's uncultured.

"Twisted Network?" I smirk, letting the words flow. "It began as the sweetest story—two best friends developing a dating app, right? I totally didn't see Caden's serial-killer path coming!"

I top it with a laugh, not because I find Caden's I'll-kill-just-cause-I-can attitude funny, but because Tracksuit is staring at me, wide-eyed. To his right, Royu Snowdrop looks like a ghost that's seen a ghost. I assume they're just surprised (and impressed) at my being acquainted with such a critically-acclaimed show, but as the clock ticks, and Tracksuit's face scrunches more with each passing second, I guess that there might be something more to their shock.

Then I know.

"You!" Tracksuit cries out. "Did you just spoil the show for Royu!?"

The mocha, its sick milkiness, rises up my throat. "'Scuse me?"

"Royu is still in the episode where Caden and Aiden are being mushy with each other. How could you give that away!"

Tracksuit continues to fuss, but I register no more than a buzz. When my eyes meet Royu Snowdrop's, he simply smiles—the same, nice-natured one he gives everyone else—and he says, "It's okay. I don't mind."

Anything but that.

I would've liked to hear anything but that, because what is "I don't mind" if not, "I don't care"? When I bring my coffee up, desperate to pour something into my withered throat, I tilt the cup more than usual—and mocha ends up dribbling down my chin. My sweater is stained brown. Royu Snowdrop gets up to look for tissues, but I stop him. He isn't angry. He isn't bothered. When I take leave from the table, he isn't following me.

I look over my shoulder, but he has already turned away. He would've minded if I were something to him, friend or enemy—I'm neither. This isn't the end, I think to myself, for it never began. How can that stop which never started?

My boarding pass reads out the seat number—Fifteen-B.

But the fire, when it should be at its hungriest, douses itself.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .