The cafe. He found it. Not on purpose. Not on instruction. Just. wandering. Aimless. Like a faulty compass. Drawn in by the gentle hum of talk. The clinking of cups. A whisper of life. Normality. He needed it. Had to be close to it. Without being in it. A window. To the world. He chose a corner table. Away from the bright, the loud. Near the window. A small, round table. Too small. Like him.
The air was thick inside. With the scent of stale coffee. And sugar. And something else. Despair? His own? Or shared. He ordered. Just a black coffee. No milk. No sugar. No distractions. The barista, another young man with a false smile, like the receptionist. Another actor. In the play. Of life.
He sat. Stirred his coffee. The spoon scraped against the ceramic. A high-pitched whine. Like my thoughts. Endless. Scraping. He looked out the window. The sun still hammered down pitilessly. People passed by. Blurs. Shapes. No faces. No connection. Just… movement. Proof. Of life. Other life. Not his.
The end. It calls. Always. The hotel. The top floor. A week. Is it sufficient? To gather. The last. Remnants. Or simply. To postpone. The unavoidable. A futile. Gesture.
He considered the poppy. The two paths. Sleep. Or transformation. He had postponed sleep. For them. His parents. The horror. Of their sorrow. A firm. Leash. But for how long? This is. Not life. This. Is simply. Not dying. A difference. Subtle. But huge.
His fingers wrapped around the rim of the coffee cup. Warm. Fragile. The porcelain, thin. He tightened his grip on it. Harder. His knuckles, white. A slight tremor. Ran through him. Shake. Like everything. Inside. Too much. Pressure.
The sound was sharp. Sudden. A crack. A thin, spiderweb crack spread in the side of the cup. Slowly. Then faster. A hairline fracture. A miniature. Earthquake. In his hands. The coffee. Warm. Seeping. A dark. Stain. On the white table.
CRACK!
The sound. It was… real. Physical. Not in his head. Not a whisper. A sharp. Crack. It startled him. Gave him a jolt. Through his numb. Body. His eyes. Open. Staring at the broken. Cup.
And with the crack. It was as if a dam. Burst. Inside. His head. The flood. Of memories. Not the fantasy. Not the great battles. The real. The ugly. The small. The constant. Pain. Lily.
Lily. Her laugh. Cold. Like winter. That winter. The class project. Hours. Days. I worked. On it. The model. Of the solar system. Cardboard. Glue. Paint. So proud. So careful. Showed it to her. So excited. "Look, Lily! What do you think?"
Her eyes. Green. Like ice. Flashed. A quick glance. A dismissive shrug. "It's… flimsy, Xing. And the planets? They're all wonky. Are you even trying? You're so useless. Sometimes."
Useless. The word. A brand. Seared. Into his young. Mind. The solar system. Crumpled. In his hands. Tears. Hot. On his cheeks. Hidden. Always. Hidden.
Another time. Her birthday. Saved. All my pocket money. For months. A little. Silver. Necklace. With a little. Engraved. Star. Thought. She'd love it. She loved stars. She always said. "It's so cheap, Xing. Did you find this in a crackerjack box? Honestly. You have no taste. No sense. Of what's good. What's wanted. You just… don't understand. Anything."
Unwanted. Yes. That's the word. Unwanted. The necklace. Discarded. Like rubbish. Like me. The gift. The trouble. The love. All. Unwanted.
The phone call. Only yesterday. "I don't want to see you. Anymore." And her voice. Soft. "Okay. I understand." No fight. No resistance. No pain. From her. Only. An empty. Assent. A quick. Letting go. Because. I was. Already. Nothing. To her. Unwanted. Useless. Easily. Discarded.
The weary. Weight. Of her. Disappointment. Her criticism. Her steady. Subtle. Degrading. A thousand. Small. Cuts. From childhood. Each one. Bleeding. Slowly. Draining. Me. Until. This. Empty.
He shuddered. Not just his hands. But through his whole body. A shudder. As if each memory was a fresh, physical punch. The coffee marked the table. The shattered cup. A witness. To the breakage. Inside.
But then. Another set of images. Not the bold, burning ones. The less conspicuous. Overlooked. Moments. Of resistance. Of small. Unseen. Triumphs.
The third-grade play. He had forgotten his lines. Frozen. On stage. Spotlight. Glaring. Eyes. Staring. Humiliation. A burning flush. His throat. Constricted. But. Then. A soft. Voice. From the back. "Just breathe, Xing. Just breathe." Mrs. Lee. His teacher. Her smile. Kind. He breathed. And spoke. The lines. Not perfectly. But. Spoke. He did not win. Best actor. But he finished. He did not. Give up. That time.
The drawing. Late at night. After a fight. With Lily. Her bitter words. Lingering. He drew. A warrior. Strong. Unbreakable. Not Suna yet. Just. A figure. Of strength. For himself. A small. Spark. Of rebellion. Against the darkness. He felt. That night.
For the first time. He published. His work. On the internet. The Call of the Arcons. No one. Knew about it. No one. Played it. But he. He constructed. It. From scratch. From his mind. From the pieces. Of his despair. A world. Whole unto itself. A victory. Small. Secret. But. Real. To him.
The poems. He penned. In secret. Pain-filled. With longing. Never told anyone. But the process. Of writing. Of putting. The upheaval. Into words. It was. A release. A slight. Reprieve. From the tempest.
He breathed. Deep. A ripped. Gasp. The air. Burned. In his lungs. The memories. Not just the pain. The surviving. The small. Acts. Of pulling himself back. From the edge. The quiet. Strength. He had. Inside him. All along. Hidden. Under layers. Of worthlessness.
His eyes, still wide open, strayed. To the broken cup. The brown stain. On the table. The cafe. The indifferent faces. Outside. The sun. The heat.
And then. Aron. Again. Not on the beach. Not defeated. But in the Poppy Field. Walking. His figure. Majestic. Amidst the swaying. Crimson. Petals. Each one. A silent. Choice.
Aron. Walks. In the field. The poppies. They breathe. The same. Air. That I. Breathe. Sleep. Or. Metamorphosis. The choice. Is there. Always.
He saw Aron bend down. Choose a poppy. Not crush it. Not discard it. Hold it. Gently. In his aged. Hand. The light. From the poppy. Pulsating. Soft. Then. More radiant.
"The poppy," Aron's voice, in his mind, was no longer a whisper. It was clear. Deep. Like the roots. Of the oldest. Tree. "It takes. A choice. To use. Its power. For oblivion. Or. For awakening."
Aron grinds up the poppy. Not in his hand. But in a mortar and pestle. The petals. The seeds. Ground. To a fine. Powder. Not for sleeping. Not for dying. For something else. Something transfiguring. He had seen Aron mix it. With water. Not to drink. But to paint. On a canvas. A great. Glowing. Map. Of the Tree of Worlds. Not a representation only. But a living. Breathing. Way.
The poppy. Is not. The end. It is. The fuel. For the journey. The map. The way. To fight. To live. To survive. To be. Something. More. Than this.
Xing felt a strange. Tremor. Through his bones. Not of pain. Not of fear. But of… possibility. The coffee. Still oozing. The crack. Still there. But the cup. Held. Together. Barely. But held.
He looked around the cafe. People. Noise. Indifferent sun. It was all still there. The monster still whispered. Worthlessness. Still a hum. But for a moment. Only a moment. The sound of Aron's voice. The sight of the changing poppy. The frail. Delicate. Memory. Of survival. Was louder.
He beckoned the barista over. His voice. Still gravelly. But audible. "Another coffee. Please. And… a cloth. For this." He pointed to the stain. The broken cup. A small. Beginning. A tentative. Step. Back. From the edge.