I have thoroughly succeeded in getting to stay at my ex-boyfriend's house. My axe has been left at the umbrella stand for the time being. No one is visiting anyway, so I'm sure it's not going to be a problem.
I glanced at the clock.
He said he gets up at seven o'clock every morning. But… it's ten past now. Not a peep. Not a single squeak. Either he's dead—or he's just perfecting the art of ignoring me.
Impatient, I marched to his room and started knocking like a drill sergeant. A wooden sign hung on the door: "XENON." Classic. So… mature.
"Xenon! It's already morning!" I called, my voice echoing down the hallway.
Silence.
I was told to never go in there, but come on—what if he oversleeps and misses school? I can't just let that happen. I peeked at the doorknob. "Well, in I go."
I twisted it. Click. Door opens.
Honestly? His room wasn't the stereotypical disaster zone I expected from a teenage boy. Clean floors, tidy bed, almost suspiciously minimalist. No action figures scattered, no laundry mountain daring me to climb it. Just… peace.
Xenon was still in bed, buried under blankets like a burrito of teenage despair.
"Xenon, rise and shine!" I said, yanking the curtains open with as much flourish as a Broadway star. Sunlight flooded the room.
He groaned. Deep, mournful, world-ending groan.
"Hey, wake up," I said, approaching him and giving his shoulder a shake.
He groaned again, the sound muffled by the pillow.
I sighed. "Wow. So this is what dedication to sleep looks like."
No response.
"I'll kiss you," I threatened, leaning closer to his face.
That did absolutely nothing—except make him retreat further under the blanket, curling in on himself like a turtle.
"…Coward," I muttered.
"Then let me check out your phone, then."
That worked.
I picked up the phone plugged into the outlet beside his bed. Locked, obviously—but the screen lit up when I tilted it. The lock screen photo appeared.
And I froze.
My breath caught before I could stop it.
Two people were in the picture.
One of them was Xenon, younger, smiling awkwardly at the camera.
The other—
My fingers tightened around the phone before I realized it.
"W-what are you doing!?" Xenon suddenly shot upright, fully awake now, panic flooding his face. He lunged for the phone, nearly tripping over his own blanket as he snatched it back.
His hair stuck out in every direction, pajamas wrinkled and half-twisted, eyes wide like I'd just discovered a state secret.
"I've been trying to wake you up," I said lightly, forcing a smile so fast my face almost hurt. I handed the phone back like nothing had happened, like my chest hadn't just caved in a little.
"You can't just come in here as you please!!" he snapped, scrambling out of bed and hastily fixing his clothes. He dragged a hand through his hair, which only made it worse. The strands danced stubbornly in every direction.
I tilted my head, studying him. "You left the door unlocked. That's practically an invitation."
"That is not how privacy works!"
"Then don't oversleep," I shot back cheerfully. "Problem solved."
He glared at me, cheeks faintly red—whether from embarrassment or anger, I couldn't tell. "You're unbelievable."
"You want me to help you in bathing?" I said sweetly.
"WHATEVER!! JUST GET OUT!!" he screamed, voice cracking somewhere between rage and teenage despair.
"Alright, alright," I muttered as I backed away. "You're even more grumpy when you wake up. Truly a marvel of nature."
The door slammed shut behind me, rattling the hallway.
I headed back to the living room and stared at the table I'd set up. Plates neatly arranged. Forks aligned. Napkins folded—sloppily, but with effort. Yesterday, when I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, he'd said American breakfast with all the confidence of someone who'd only ever seen it in movies.
So I'd done my best.
Scrambled eggs, slightly overcooked. Bacon, a little too crispy. Toast, buttered generously because life is short and the world is ending. There was even a sad attempt at hash browns that I was irrationally proud of.
I'm good at cooking. I really am. But cooking for someone else after being alone for so long felt… strange. Like flexing a muscle I hadn't used in years. You forget the small things—how food cools while you wait, how you listen for footsteps, how you hope someone will sit down and eat instead of leaving it untouched.
Xenon would eat it. He always did. That thought alone made it worth it.
…Or so I thought.
He came out of his room ten minutes later, already dressed in his uniform, hair hastily tamed but still rebellious. He didn't even look at the table. Just grabbed his bag, slipped on his shoes, and headed straight for the door.
Something in my chest snapped.
"Wait, Xenon! You forgot something."
"What now!?" he barked, clearly on edge and running late.
He turned around anyway.
Big mistake.
Before he could react, I leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
"What the—!?"
"Have a nice day," I said brightly.
His entire face went red in an instant, all the way to the tips of his ears. He froze, stared at me like his brain had short-circuited, then fumbled violently with his shoes.
"Y-you're—!" he sputtered, then gave up entirely, bolting out the door like the house was on fire.
The door slammed.
Silence followed.
I stood there for a moment, then slowly sat down on the step by the entranceway. The house felt bigger when he was gone. Too quiet. The smell of breakfast lingered in the air, warm and pointless.
I've always thought I wanted to kill Argon.
I gently brush my fingers along the blade of my axe, feeling the faint chill cling to my skin. If the world is going to end, then I shouldn't let him walk away untouched. That was my logic. Even if the law doesn't punish him. Even if God forgives him. Even if everyone else forgets. I wouldn't. I would carry that resentment to the very last second and carve it into reality with my own hands.
That's what I thought.
"But now I'm not so sure…"
The image on Xenon's phone resurfaces in my mind uninvited. His lock screen. That photo. I hadn't meant to see it, hadn't meant for it to matter—but it does. I can't even clearly remember Argon's face anymore. It's strange how quickly a person fades when they stop being the center of your world. Still, it doesn't matter. He's alive. Safe. Probably sipping something expensive at his villa, surrounded by people who adore him without knowing a damn thing about who he really is.
Argon was never much of a student. Why would he be? He dressed himself in designer clothes like armor, coasted through life on charm and good looks, and let others orbit him, eager to take care of everything he didn't feel like doing. Women lined up to feed him, dress him, excuse him. I used to be one of them. I hated that about myself long before I hated him.
I got up, head to the kitchen table, and wrap up the food that has been left uneaten.
Argon isn't coming back here.
Xenon probably knows that.
Maybe he always has.
And then the world will end. Just like that. No grand conclusion. No justice. No revenge that actually means anything. Everything dissolves into nothing, equally meaningless.
So why am I here?
Why am I cooking breakfast, cleaning bathrooms, knocking on doors I was told never to open? Why am I worrying about a boy who eats cake like it's his last meal and blushes at the smallest touch?
I set the wrapped food aside, then rest my head on the table. The wood is cool against my cheek. Dust motes drift lazily through the sunlight, suspended like the world itself is hesitating.
My thoughts circle endlessly, never landing anywhere solid.
In the end, I close my eyes.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Ding!
I wake up to the sound of the microwave oven.
I blink blearily, my vision swimming for a second before things come into focus. I'm lying on the sofa, a blanket tucked neatly around me.
…Wasn't I sleeping on the table?
I turn my head and see Xenon standing stiffly near the kitchen, looking at me like a kid who just got caught sneaking snacks before dinner. Our eyes meet, and he immediately looks away.
Oh.
So that's what happened.
I must've been out for a while. The light outside has softened into that golden-orange hue that only shows up near evening. Xenon's still in his school uniform, his bag slung over one shoulder like he hasn't even had time to properly come in yet.
"Welcome back…?" I mumble, pushing myself upright. The blanket slips down to my lap.
"Why are you sleeping on the table anyway?" he said.
"Because it's comfy," I say without missing a beat, grinning at him.
He rolls his eyes, but it's lazy this time. "You won't mind me eating this, right?" he says, gesturing toward the microwave.
Only then do I realize what's inside.
…The breakfast.
"Right now?"
I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock, my brain still lagging behind my body. I'd slept too deeply—so deeply I'd forgotten the most important thing.
I hadn't cooked anything for him.
Xenon had a very obvious sweet tooth, and with the appetite of a growing teenager, three proper meals were clearly not enough to carry him through a day. I should've at least made snacks. Cookies. Pancakes.
"Well, I'm starving!" he said, sounding a little embarrassed, like admitting hunger was some kind of personal failure.
"Planting my apple tree, huh…" I teased lightly.
"What? I'm eating this, whether you like it or not!" he shot back, immediately sitting at the table and digging in before I could say another word.
I laughed and pulled out the chair across from him, sitting down to watch.
"Next time," I said gently, "I'll make dessert too."
He paused, then nodded once, very quickly.
"…Don't forget," he said.
As if I ever could.