The quiet hum of the car engine was the only sound on the journey back to the city, a stark contrast to the storm that had raged in my mind. Amelia, the fragile, potent anomaly, remained a constant, unsettling presence in my thoughts. Her mixed scent, the echoes of her rage, the desperate innocence when she slept—she was unlike anything I had encountered. We had promised to return next weekend, a vow that now bound me to her fate as much as to Krista's. The stakes had been raised, subtly but irrevocably.
Back at school, the illusion of normalcy was short-lived. Our friends, with their uncanny knack for sniffing out secrets, cornered us almost immediately. Ethan, always the most direct, narrowed his eyes. "Don't you dare lie to us. We know you were together the past two days. How can you go and have fun without us? Are we even your friends?"
Their playful accusations belied a genuine curiosity, and perhaps a touch of hurt. I glanced at Krista, seeing her familiar hesitation, her instinct to deflect. But this wasn't a secret she could guard indefinitely from this group, not with their relentless persistence. And, a new thought, a strategic calculation, formed in my mind: Perhaps they could be useful. Their resources, their network, their very normalcy, could be an asset in a world far removed from their own.
"It was something important," I stated, my voice even, measured. "I can't tell you about it unless Krista agrees." I turned to her, giving her the choice, pushing her just slightly outside her comfort zone. "What do you think? Maybe they can help."
She stammered, caught off guard by my candor. "Well, I, uh, I don't know. Maybe we—"
Before she could finish, a familiar voice cut through the air, sharp and clear. "Krista!"
My gaze snapped to the source. A young man, well-dressed, with an air of confident familiarity, strode towards us. Krista's reaction was immediate and startling. A radiant, uninhibited smile, one I hadn't seen directed at anyone else, bloomed on her face. "Philip!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with an almost childish glee, and she ran towards him, throwing her arms around him in a tight embrace.
My senses sharpened, assessing Philip. He was human, undeniably so, but there was a possessive air about him, a comfort in Krista's arms that felt… intrusive. My earlier analysis of his background, what little I knew from Krista's mentions, filtered through my mind: childhood friend, son of a trusted Church official. But observing them now, the easy intimacy, the undeniable joy on Krista's face, stoked a cold, unfamiliar twist in my gut.
Ethan's blunt question, "Who's this?" finally broke the embrace. Krista, still beaming, introduced him. "This is Philip, my childhood friend." She then rattled off our names, a swift, almost perfunctory introduction: "These are my friends: Ethan, Kai, Christian, Jeremy and Marcus."
Christian, ever the polite one, extended a hand. "You're Krista's childhood friend? It's nice to meet you."
Philip returned the handshake, his smile widening, and then he delivered the blow. "Nice to meet you too. Yes, we grew up together. She's more than just a friend to me, though. We're actually engaged."
The murmurs of surprise from Ethan and the others were audible. Christian's friendly smile wavered, replaced by a stunned expression. My own face, I knew, remained impassive, betraying nothing. Indifferent, Krista would later think. But inside, a quiet, unfamiliar rage began to simmer. Engaged? The word felt like a shard of ice, lodging itself deep within me. It was illogical, absurd. She was human. She was… mine to protect. But the word, the claim, sparked something far more personal, far more possessive, than mere guardianship.
Krista, thankfully, brushed it off, dismissing it as a "silly joke." "Stop it," she laughed, pushing him lightly. "You still say that silly joke?" She turned to us, her smile still wide, oblivious to the shift in the air, the coldness creeping into my core. "Sorry. I can't hang out with you today, maybe next time. Bye." She walked off with Philip, her hand tucked into his arm, leaving us standing in her wake, leaving me to grapple with this new, unwelcome emotion.
The days that followed were a blur of growing confusion and an unfamiliar, persistent ache. Philip's constant presence by her side, their shared laughter echoing through the hallways, the carefree joy I saw whenever he was near—it was a relentless assault on my carefully constructed composure. This was the happiness I had only just begun to experience with her, the lightness that had started to permeate my usually ordered existence. Now, it felt stolen, replaced by a cold, quiet jealousy I refused to acknowledge, even to myself. It was illogical. She was human, a friend. Nothing more.
Yet, the feeling festered. It was a dark, foreign entity, stirring a possessiveness I hadn't known I possessed. My logical mind demanded its eradication. I couldn't allow such base human emotions to corrupt my focus, my duty.
So, I retreated. Deliberately. I didn't talk to her at lunch. I didn't greet her in the hallway. I stopped coming to the library in the morning. I made myself distant, cold, just as I had been before our friendship blossomed. It was a defense, a futile attempt to cage the illogical emotions that Philip's presence stirred within me. It felt like tearing a piece of myself away, but I believed it was necessary. I needed to reset, to return to the cold, rational being I was meant to be. Her hurt, I knew, was a consequence. A necessary one, I told myself, for a feeling I couldn't afford to have.