Fortunately, they didn't notice me.
The line in the Academy bistro was what it always was: too long, too loud, too full of stale coffee and teenage adrenaline. I'd wedged myself into the back corner, hood pulled low, eyes glued to the scuffed tile like it owed me money. Rule #1 of survival: if you don't move, you're invisible. It'd worked for five years straight.
Not today.
My stomach betrayed me. Loud. One sharp, echoing _growl_ that cut through the clatter of trays. The person in front of me half-turned. I froze, muscles locking like I'd been hit with a stasis rune. But she was just digging for her wallet. Crisis averted.
I exhaled one molecule at a time and made a decision: now or never. I stood up. Every step toward the counter felt like a boss fight with no save point and half a health bar. My objective: a muffin. But not just any muffin.
I chose the blueberry muffin with cranberry filling.
This wasn't pastry. This was an artifact. Golden-brown on the outside, with that perfect crust that gives the soft _crackle_ you only hear in commercials. Inside: controlled chaos. Sweet blueberries that burst in the oven and bled little violet lakes through the crumb. And then, at the core, that aggressive, ruby-red cranberry filling. Sweet-sour, like a slap followed by honey.
My favorite. The best thing this Academy ever produced. Better than any alchemy lecture. Better than passing grades.
I paid, mumbled a "thanks" that probably came out as "ngh", and prepared my tactical retreat. Back to the corner. Back to safety.
»"How did you make that muffin like that again?"«
The voice came from behind me, off to the left. Deep, calm, with that slight rasp like he'd just finished a sprint. Or like he always sounded that way. Like his default setting was "dangerously chill."
I didn't turn around. Maybe he wasn't talking to me. Please let him not be talking to me.
A finger tapped my shoulder. Light. Just a tap. But my nervous system reacted like I'd grabbed a live wire. Every nerve I owned lit up and filed a complaint.
Slowly, like a horror movie protagonist checking the closet, I turned.
And there he was.
Zogar from Year Three. Zogar, captain of the Skyball team. Zogar, who looked like someone decided "cool" should be a person and then just built him. Dark hair, always a little too long at the nape. A scar through his eyebrow that nobody knew the real story behind. And that smile. Not the arrogant smirk Keshka wore when she knew she'd won. A real one. A "hey, I see you" smile.
He was looking at me. Waiting.
My brain: Error 404. Language module not found.
But my mouth had other plans. It opened without consulting the rest of me. And then it happened. I didn't answer. I _presented_. I _lectured_. About muffins. In public.
"So first mix 300g of flour with 125g of sugar and baking powder-spda duo, plus this one pinch of salt, so the base is up and then I grab the next bowl for the two eggs and the yoghurt, which I whisk together with the 125g of melted butter and the vanilla to a creamy mass, while I already wonder if all this still makes sense in my head, but whatever, I now simply tip the liquid to the flour, stir very briefly, as if I were in a hurry, because I know that otherwise the dough will be tough and then they come, the 150g of blueberries and the 100g of cranberries, which I only fold in very slowly so that this wild marbling remains and everything does not sink into a faint uniform violet, before I portion the dough into the moulds and push the whole load into the oven at 180 degrees, and then squat impatiently in front of the disc for twenty minutes, while the smell of wild berries clouds my senses and I seriously have to control myself to inhale the things directly from the tray after boiling hot."
Silence.
The entire line stared. The bistro lady stopped pouring coffee mid-stream. Somewhere behind me, someone dropped a fork and it clanged like a cymbal at a funeral.
Three facts hit me at once:
1. I had just screamed a baking recipe into the world.
2. I said "baking powder-spda duo." Whatever that is.
3. I hadn't blinked in thirty seconds.
My face detonated. Not just cheeks. The _whole_ face. Forehead, ears, even my neck felt like it was running a fever. I wanted the floor to open up. I wanted to transmute into a muffin and get eaten. Anything was better than this.
I kept muttering to myself, "blueberry-cranberries muffins… marbling… violet…" without noticing. My mouth was on autopilot because my brain had blue-screened for safety reasons.
I didn't even register that the line was moving. That people behind me were grumbling. That I was single-handedly causing a bistro traffic jam.
Until someone tapped me again. Same spot on the shoulder. Same electric jolt down my spine.
I went to turn, to apologize, to disintegrate. I froze mid-turn.
Because it was Zogar again. Still there. Still with that smile. Only now there was amusement in it too. Not mocking. More… fascinated. Like I was a weird bug he'd never seen before and wasn't sure if he should poke it.
My heart started doing things that weren't in the anatomy textbook. Stumbling, backflips, full emergency stop.
»"Hey Matey, so I don't think I know much about you, but could you go on, so because of the line and the other people behind me?"«
His voice was even quieter now. Like you'd use on a spooked animal. Which was fair. I _was_ a spooked animal.
Wait... what?! Did Zogar just talk to me?!
Zogar. Spoke. To. Me.
Not "hey you". Not "move". But "Hey Matey."
_Matey._
My brain tried to process the word and crashed. It ran in circles screaming and set itself on fire.
I just nodded. Violently. Like a bobblehead on a dash during an earthquake. Because I knew: if I opened my mouth right now, two scenarios would play out.
Scenario one: Only stuttering comes out. "I-I-I-uh-uhm…" Classic system failure.
Scenario two: My head ejects random philosophy quotes. Nietzsche, Kant, something my grandpa once said about "a full stomach studies poorly." I had zero control over it. Under stress, I became a walking quote machine with no off switch.
So I stayed silent. Nodded. And moved one step forward like a robot with lag.
He moved up behind me. Not crowding. Just… there. Presence. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand behind me in the muffin line.
Then he spoke again. And this time it hit me with no armor equipped.
»"So I think you're really cool and all, because of your hair color. If you want, you could eat with our group."«
Time. Stopped.
I stopped breathing. The world got quiet. The clatter of trays, the murmur of other students, the hiss of the coffee machine – all muffled, far away, underwater.
He thought I was cool.
_Cool._
Because of my hair color.
My hair was… a disaster. An accident. Last semester I tried to dye it silver. It went mint green. Then turquoise. Now it was an aggressive petrol blue with silver roots because I was too broke for touch-ups. Keshka called it "Seaweed Chic." Netha said nothing, but her look said everything.
And Zogar called it _cool_.
And he wanted me to eat with his group.
His group. That wasn't just any group. That was _the_ group. The core of the Skyball team. The ones who trained on the Academy roofs. The ones who volunteered first for night missions. The ones people whispered had actually seen a real wyvern.
And me? I was the guy who walked into doors because he was staring at the floor. The guy who had just shouted a muffin recipe into the queue.
And he had one-hundred-percent heard my rambling. The part about "wild berries" and "squat impatiently in front of the disc." Oven door, I meant. Disc. God.
I had to answer. Now. Say yes. Say yes, you idiot.
My mouth opened. My vocal cords vibrated. And what came out?
A squeak.
A real, high-pitched, mouse-level squeak, followed by: »"N-no, It's okay, maybe next time..."«
_Maybe next time._
Did I hear myself? _Maybe next time._ Like I had a schedule. Like I was busy. I was so free I had time to study the molecular structure of dust.
My cheeks were back in meltdown mode. I tried to force my brain to form a sentence. Anything. "Wait, I meant yes!" or "Sorry, I'm dumb!" or at least "Thanks!"
Nothing. Just static.
And then I saw it. His smile. It didn't get smaller. It got… soft. Understanding. Like he'd expected exactly that. Like it was okay.
His voice was low, just for me. »"Sure, See you next time!"«
No mockery. No "alright, freak." Just a promise. _See you next time._
Then he stepped past me to the counter. I caught his scent as he moved. Rain and leather and something metallic. Skyball racket, probably.
He ordered. Nothing epic. No dragon steak. He got a box of pineapple chunks.
Pineapple.
Zogar, Skyball god, ate pineapple out of a plastic box. It was so… human. So normal. So disarming it should be illegal.
He paid, didn't turn around again, and walked back to his table. To his group. They shifted, made space. One of them, a big guy with a red headband, held up a fist. Zogar bumped it. They laughed at something.
Without me.
Wait... did I just blow my only chance at a friendship?
The thought hit me like a training spear to the gut.
My very first friendship that would have been part of my Training or education?!
At the Academy that mattered. Connections. Teams. You didn't get through the Year Five final exam alone. You needed people who had your back. Literally. During the Survival Trials in the Frostwoods.
And I had just said "N-no, maybe next time" to the person who'd invited me.
No... this... this... can't be real!... No! Shit! Shit! I hate myself so much! Why? Just why?! What if I said yes instead of no? Shit! I hate myself, I hate myself!
The spiral started. Fast. Deeper. I was still standing in the line even though it was my turn ages ago. The bistro lady cleared her throat. I flinched, grabbed my muffin, my tray, and fled. To an empty table by the window. Far from Zogar. Far from everyone.
I stared at the muffin. My muffin. My best, beloved, sweet-sour comfort.
It looked… sad suddenly. The blueberries didn't gleam anymore. The cranberry filling that had looked like liquid ruby before now just looked… bloody.
After an eternity, or maybe five minutes, my pulse slowed down. The shame didn't leave, but it went dull. Background noise instead of a scream.
Still, I found it hard not to hate myself.
Why did I say no? Because I'm afraid and a coward?
Yeah. Probably.
But why do my cheeks always turn red and why do I stutter so much when I'm near him?
That was the question. The question I'd been shoving into a mental closet for weeks.
Shit, I don't know... I don't even stutter around Keshka or Netha, the two most beautiful and popular girls at our place.
Fact. Keshka with her perfect curls and laugh that sounded like wind chimes. Netha with her ice-blue eyes and the way she entered every room like she owned the deed to it.
Every boy raves about those two and are making bets on who is the prettier one.
"Team Keshka" versus "Team Netha." It was a sport here. There were rankings. Unofficial, obviously. But everyone knew them.
Except for me.
I was the only boy in a ten-kilometer radius who didn't care. I thought they were pretty, sure. Objectively. Like you think a painting is pretty. But my heart didn't do parkour. My cheeks stayed their normal, pale shade. I could talk to both of them without my vocabulary shrinking to "uhm."
I'm the only boy who doesn't do that. But with that one...
With Zogar, it's something completely different...
Shit! Why am I only thinking about him!
I balled my fists under the table. Stop. Think about muffins. Think about reaction equations. Think about the embarrassing scar on your knee from when you tripped over your own feet. Think about _anything_ else.
Didn't work.
Wait... I haven't... fallen for Zogar, have I?!
The thought was there. Loud. Undeniable. And it felt like betrayal. Of myself. Of everything I thought I knew.
That's not possible! Two boys? A couple? No!
I was fifteen. Not five. But my head screamed "five" because "five" felt safe. "Five" was an excuse.
Still I'm five years old, so... so it's just a Phase! Yeah... just a phase.
Say it enough and it becomes true. Right?
But what if this isn't just a phase I'm going through, but is forever?
That thought was worse. Much worse. "Forever" sounded like commitment. Like labels. Like talk.
No! Shit! That can't be true! What would others think of me if they only knew that I... in Zogar... No!
I couldn't even finish the thought. "That I… in Zogar…" What? Had a crush? Liked him? More than liked him?
That's out of the question!
Decision. Logged. Locked away. Key thrown into the void.
I... I will simply not open my mouth or just decline if someone brings up this topic... Yeah! Exactly like that!
Good plan. Solid. Waterproof. I'd just never talk to Zogar again. Or about him. Or think about him. Problem solved.
I nodded to myself. Strong. Convincing.
Then I looked at the muffin again.
I sighed and looked at the blueberry muffin with cranberry filling. I've lost my appetite...
The sweet-sour slap didn't appeal anymore. I wanted… I didn't know what I wanted.
Oh well... I'll just go for a little walk to get some fresh air.
I stood up. Left the muffin sitting there. First time in my life. It felt like sacrilege.
Outside was cold. The wind from the Frostwoods blew all the way down to the Academy and smelled like snow and pine needles and danger. I pulled my hood tighter.
I walked. No goal. Past the training grounds, where Zogar was probably eating pineapple and laughing right now. Past the library tower, where Keshka and Netha were definitely surrounded by a cluster of boys "doing homework."
I walked until I hit the old wall at the edge of the grounds. Nobody was here. Just me and the crows and the wind.
"Just a phase," I said out loud. My voice sounded thin. Pathetic.
The wind didn't answer.
I pressed my forehead to the cold stone. "See you next time," he'd said.
Next time.
When was next time? Tomorrow in the line? Next week in training? Three years from now when we randomly meet on a battlefield?
And what would I do then? Squeak again? Stammer "maybe next time" again?
Or would I…
No. Out of the question.
I closed my eyes. And for one second, one stupid, treacherous second, I let myself remember. Not the shame. Not the rambling.
But the smile.
The "Hey Matey."
The "you're really cool."
And my damn cheeks got hot again. In the middle of Frostwood wind.
Shit.
I kicked a pebble. It skittered across the frost and vanished into a drain. Gone. Like my chance. Like my brain cells.
I stayed there until my fingers went numb. Until the dinner bell rang from the main hall and echoed across the courtyard. Until I could pretend my legs weren't shaking anymore.
Maybe next time.
I hated myself for saying it. Hated myself more for meaning it. Because some stupid, hopeful part of me actually wanted a next time.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.