Or so I thought.
After the mango incident, my sick leave vanished—along with the feeling of being ill, as if it had never existed. (I still don't want to go back to school.) I was drowning in pending school activities, a special exam for the sick me, and a solo video project where all the ending credits are just my name.
I'm thinking about Pavlov's dogs again—how they drooled at the sound of a bell like students conditioned to panic at the word "quiz." Then there's Dostoevsky, whose life was such a mess that even my overdue assignments feel like a vacation. Sometimes I drift into Schopenhauer's gloom, but more often it's Nietzsche who takes over my thoughts. The man's quotes slap. His mustache? Iconic. Every time I read him, my heart goes badump (yes, I have a crush on him). Just random musings about life and misery while pretending I'm not behind on five different deadlines.
And then, with a loud and aching slap, I suddenly felt like some depressed prodigy who finally understood the true purpose of existence.
What's worse? You wanna die.
Actually, there is something worse than my suffering last week, and it's the school workload that welcomed me with open arms even though I didn't want any of it.
"You didn't attend school last week?" Mr. Aresé sips his matcha, legs in expensive trousers crossed as he eyes me with a smirk.
I, on the other hand, who only knows about coffee at home, brazenly ordered a mocha float. It's bitter as hell. The sweetness? Trying way too hard. The sundae on top? Completely out of place.
"Question my stomach, please."
That's the only answer I can give as I keep my expression as neutral as possible. There's no way I'm going to enjoy this kind of drink with a smile on my face.
I can finish this disgrace, but I'll tell you right now with all my heart—I will never, ever order this again, not even if I win the lottery. Today, I'm broke.
"So you're sick? I even asked for a copy of your schedule to hang out with you."
Those words made me raise a brow, a bit shocked and honestly finding it ridiculous.
Am I the protagonist of my lame-ass short novel now? Because honestly… it's giving.
I chew on my straw, letting the bitterness of this overpriced disappointment numb my tongue. If only I could transfer this pain to my deadlines.
Mr. Aresé leans back like he owns the damn café, swirling his drink like it's aged wine instead of overpriced green powder. "You're making that face again. The one where you think you're too deep for this world."
"I'm just thinking about death," I say calmly, because that's easier than explaining I haven't touched my school modules in days and the digital pile is slowly morphing into a vengeful spirit.
He blinks at me, amused. "Your face says that every time I see you."
"Consistency is key."
A small silence drags in. I try sipping the mocha again, instantly regretting it. Even the whipped cream can't save this drink. I set it down with all the grace of a man at his final straw.
He takes another sip, staring at me like I'm a sitcom rerun he can't stop watching. "So, what did you actually do during your sick leave?"
Lie? Tell the truth? Say I was on a self-imposed artistic journey to find meaning in mangoes?
"I wrote a novel."
His brow lifts.
"A 15-chapter conspiracy-action drama with one prologue and two endings," I add, trying to sound impressive despite knowing exactly how stupid it sounds when said out loud.
Mr. Aresé stares. "That's... very productive for someone allegedly vomiting last week."
"I wrote it while lying on the floor, if that helps the image."
"And what's it about?"
Here we go.
"It's about a corrupt politician with a suspicious charity foundation, a tired cop who wants to retire and own a turtle, and a journalist named Mira who's allergic to logic but somehow never dies."
He raises both brows now. "Inspired by anyone?"
I raise my brows back. "Don't flatter yourself."
Mr. Aresé laughs — a short, amused one that makes me suspicious. "So where did you post this literary masterpiece?"
"A sketchy webnovel site that gives you five dollars a month if you post more than ten chapters. Each chapter had to be at least three thousand words. So I hit the quota. Quick cash."
"You're that broke?"
I glare. "I prefer to call it financially challenged."
The sundae on my mocha has started to melt pathetically. It mirrors my life.
He leans forward again, smiling. "You're lucky I find this version of you entertaining."
"I'm not trying to be."
"Exactly."
The silence this time feels weirdly... comfortable. Like I've unknowingly stepped into a filler episode of my life where nothing makes sense but everything still moves forward.
Then, like the natural progression of disasters, my phone buzzes. It's a reminder of the solo video project due tomorrow.
I stare at the notification. I consider flinging myself out the café window.
Mr. Aresé notices the shift in my expression. "School again?"
I nod solemnly. "If I die, avenge me."
"I'll just repost your novel and claim the ad revenue."
I give him a blank look. "Remind me to delete my hard drive if I ever collapse."
He smirks. "Noted."
And as I sip the last bitter remains of my mocha float, I realize this man might be the antagonist in more ways than one. Not just in fiction. But in the living, breathing, mocha-ruining reality of my everyday life.
All of a sudden, something clicked.
It made me pause, my body stiff as I slowly turned to look at him.
"When did the two of us get close?"