Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 8

So I leaned forward, changed the subject, not because I wanted to, but because I wanted her back in the moment.

Here. With me. In the light.

“I wanna try something new today,” I said, a casual tilt in my voice, eyes still on hers. “Any recommendations?”

She blinked. Looked up. The sadness still shimmered faintly, like the afterglow of a storm.

But then she smiled, really smiled this time. It was smaller, quieter, but it reached her eyes. A little spark. A little return.

And in that moment, I realized what it meant to hold space for someone without asking for anything in return.

Sometimes, you don’t need to fix the cracks.

You just need to sit beside them… and let the light in.

She didn’t say anything.

No witty comeback, no teasing remark, not even a quiet sigh. She just… closed her notebook, stood up, and looked at me.

Something in her expression had changed, not heavy, not hollow, just… distant. Like she was slipping again. But this time, she wasn’t falling inward. She was walking away from it.

I hesitated, confused, unsure if I did something wrong. But then she tilted her head toward the door, barely a nod, and started walking.

So I followed.

Out of the library. Out of the echo of our laughter. Out of the weight of whatever thoughts she couldn't say out loud. I followed her through the halls, past classrooms, past the soft buzzing of vending machines and half-broken bulletin boards with curling flyers.

Then, we stepped into the sun.

The late afternoon heat kissed my skin, heavy and golden. The air smelled like melted asphalt and cheap cologne from students who wore too much of it. I wanted to ask where we were going, but something told me not to. Just walk. Just be here.

And then we stopped.

A rusty metal cart stood on the side of the street, umbrella faded from too many summers. It was surrounded by students, laughter, loud music playing from a Bluetooth speaker, and the thick, unmistakable scent of something fried.

Betty stood beside me, her hair catching the sun like it was spun from light. She pointed. “Kwek kwek,” she said, grinning.

“...What?” I blinked at the orange balls crackling in oil.

“Quail eggs. Battered. Fried. Orange.” She said it like it was obvious. “And tempura. Fishballs. That one’s probably made of regret and clams, but it’s good, I swear.”

I stared. “I’ve never eaten any of this.”

She gave me a look, mock shock, hand to her chest. “You’re uncultured.”

“I’m alive. That’s enough.”

She handed the vendor a crumpled bill and gave me a stick with three bright orange kwek kwek. “Try it.”

I held the stick like it might explode.

“Come on,” she said, nudging my arm. “Be brave.”

I took a bite. The texture hit first, crispy, chewy, weirdly soft in the middle. Then the taste, egg yolk, oily batter, and the vinegar dip that punched me in the throat like betrayal. I gagged.

She burst out laughing.

“Swallow it,” she managed between laughs. “Oh my god, James.”

I forced it down, smiled wide like it didn’t feel like I just ate a fried eyeball. “Delicious,” I croaked.