"The worst part of being pushed is not the fall. It is the moment you realise there was never any ground beneath you." ~ Unknown.
Selina watched Michael move through the kitchen, her fork suspended over her half-eaten pancake. She hadn't known he could cook. let alone like this. The pancakes were light, perfectly golden, the honey she'd requested soaking into each fluffy layer.
"These are incredible!" One of their classmates exclaimed from across the table, reaching for a second serving.
Asper and Rory exchanged knowing smiles. "Michael's always been good at making such dishes," Asper said, leaning back in her chair. "The first time we ate at his place, we made him promise to cook every time we met up. He's got a gift for it. Funny thing is, he doesn't know how to make any local dishes. But I've never had better pasta anywhere else."
Rory nodded enthusiastically. "His pasta is unreal. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it."
"It's the sauce," Asper added. "He won't tell us what's in it; there are no words to describe how good it is."
Around the table, envy rippled through the group. A few classmates murmured that they'd love to try Michael's cooking sometime.
Michael had only agreed to cook because Asper and Rory had requested it. However, he might have wanted to give Selina a healthy meal as his last goodbye.
Selina said nothing, but her gaze kept drifting toward the kitchen. Every time she learned something new about Michael, she found herself a little more amazed. He was like a book she'd passed over a hundred times without opening, only to discover that the first chapter alone held more than she'd ever expected.
Michael emerged from the kitchen with his own plate, two pancakes, and butter melting into the top layer. He sat beside Asper and Rory, directly across from Selina, and began to eat without looking up.
Selina watched him, noting the way he spread butter while she had chosen honey. Different tastes. Different worlds. Last night, she had made sure of that.
He didn't glance her way. When their eyes almost met, she looked down first, shame prickling at the back of her neck.
After breakfast, Selina lingered over her coffee, watching from the corner of her eye as Asper and Rory cornered Michael near the counter.
"You can't leave yet," Asper was saying, her voice carrying. "Stay at least until tonight."
"I really should go," Michael replied, but his protest was mild.
Rory clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. What's the rush? Stay for the pool party. Have some fun."
Others chimed in. Michael stood surrounded by them, his expression patient but unreadable, his bag already packed by the door.
Then his gaze lifted, and across the room, his eyes met Selina's.
She didn't look away this time. Neither did he.
For a long moment, the noise of the room seemed to fade. She wanted to say something, to bridge the distance she had carved between them, but the words lodged in her throat.
He looked away first.
"Alright," he said to the group. "I'll stay until evening."
Selina sat motionless, her coffee gone cold, her heart beating a rhythm she didn't want to name.
Michael excused himself to the washroom. He ran the tap, let the cold water run over his wrists, and studied his reflection in the mirror.
He looked tired, he realised. Not from the late night, but from something deeper.
The door opened behind him. He glanced up through the mirror and saw Selina slip inside, her steps hesitant.
He turned back to the sink, reaching for a paper towel to dry his hair.
She came to the sink beside him. He saw her sneak a glance at him in the mirror, and when he met her eyes, she flinched away.
"Sorry, I didn't leave," he said, his voice flat. "I must look unbearable to you, the way you keep staring."
The words landed. He saw her shoulders stiffen.
"That's not- " she started.
He dried his hands, folded the towel, and walked out before she could finish.
The afternoon was a pool party. Someone set up a portable speaker that pulsed with summer music. The water was cool against the heat, and soon the group had divided into teams for volleyball.
Selina moved through the game with practised ease. She spiked, she dove, she cheered, but between plays, her eyes kept drifting toward the shallow end, where Michael stood in a loose linen shirt, his hair damp and curling at the ends.
Her team won three matches. She should have felt satisfied. Instead, she felt hollow.
By six o'clock, the sun had begun its descent. The group gathered on the deck, towels draped over shoulders, the promise of drinks and a bonfire on the lawn already taking shape.