Episode 4 — Universe speaks

Devion's POV

I knew it. Fever. My body feels heavier than usual, my throat aches, and every breath rattles like an old engine. But of course—I still showed up for duty at the Glasshouse cafeteria. Because why not? If I’m already miserable, might as well push it.

Mask on. Headphones hanging on my neck. Hoodie zipped up. I cough behind the mask, the sound low and rough, and try to ignore the burn in my chest.

I sit on the counter chair, hands in my pocket. My legs swing lazily back and forth. There’s nothing to do anyway; the morning crowd is thin.

Instinctively, my eyes slide toward the table near the window. The usual one. The one where he always sits.

Empty.

Well, I guess my duty will be boring.

I sigh and push my headphones on. Music fills my ears, but not enough to drown the thoughts I don’t want to have. I hum softly, tap my fingers against my knee, even pretend I’m playing drums on air. Anything to make the time pass.

Still no sign of him.

No messy tote bag. No hunched shoulders. No tired eyes trying to survive another day.

Ugh, Devion. Stop. You lived years without him. Can’t you just survive one duty without any sign of that guy?

I lean back, tilt my chair, stare at the ceiling. My fever makes the lights blur a little. Perfect. Just perfect.

I glance at the clock. My duty’s almost over. Just thirty more minutes. I can go home, collapse on my bed, and die in peace.

Then—the sound of the door chime.

DING!

I straighten too quickly, my heart skipping.

There he is.

He’s drenched from the heavy rain, hair clinging to his forehead. But in his hand—

My lips curve before I can stop them. A grin threatens to break out, but I force it back. Mask up. Hide it. I fix my posture and sit properly, like nothing in this world bothers me.

“Good morning, sir,” I say, my voice rough from the cough. At least this fever gave me one gift—a different tone. He won’t recognize me.

Good job, Devion. Be thankful this fever messed up your voice. He’ll never know it’s you. You absolute idiot.

He approaches the counter, setting his tote bag down with a heavy thud. His eyes look tired, but… softer today. Maybe less weighed down.

I nod, punch it in the register, and turn away to prepare it. My hands move automatically. Coffee. Creamer. Just one pump of sugar. Easy.

But I can feel his presence behind me. Like a weight on my back. Like the rainwater clinging to his clothes somehow reached me.

Why am I… relieved he’s here?

I place the cup on the counter, sliding it toward him. “Here you go.” My cough slips out right after, muffled by my mask. I look away quickly, pretending to check something else.

“Are you okay?” His voice. Gentle. Concerned.

I freeze. Don’t react, Devion. Don’t you dare.

“I’m fine, sir,” I manage, forcing my voice deeper, quieter. “Just a little cold.”

Then, without warning, he reaches into his bag. For one horrifying second, I think he’s about to pull out something ridiculous like medicine, or—god forbid—money. My whole body stiffens. Please don’t. Please don’t.

Instead, he takes out a small bottle. He holds it out to me.

"Here," he says simply. "This will help."

It’s an essential oil. Minty. Comfort in a tiny glass bottle.

My hands freeze. My whole brain shuts down.

What do I do? Say no? But he’s waiting. He’s watching. My pulse is a drumline in my ears.

I shake my head lightly, fumbling for words. "No, no, sir, it’s—"

He doesn’t let me finish. He uncaps it, leans forward, and the faint smell of mint hits me before I can think. He pushes it gently toward my hand, like he’s telling me silently, Don’t argue with me.

I swallow hard. My fingers finally wrap around the bottle, trembling like it’s something fragile, sacred even.

"...Thank you," I whisper.

He nods. Just nods. No lecture. No questions. Just that.

I turn away fast. Too fast. It’s obvious, but I can’t stay there under his gaze. I push through the counter door, stumble into the hallway, and lock myself in the restroom.

The bottle burns cold in my palm. My reflection in the mirror is pale, sick, and stupid.

"Why am I like this?" I whisper to myself.

He shouldn’t matter. Not to me. Not like this.

I grip the sink until my knuckles ache, trying to breathe. But the truth is in my chest already, heavier than the fever: I don’t know how to stop.

...--- CUT. Switch POV. --...

...Episode 4 (Switch POV – Elco)...

Elco's POV

I can’t concentrate.

The professor’s voice drones on, but all I hear is the echo of that boy’s cough, the way his eyes avoided mine, the quiet thank you before he bolted out of the café. My notebook is open, pen in hand, but the page stays blank.

The rain hasn’t stopped since this morning. I stare out the window beside my seat, watching droplets race each other down the glass. My classmates laugh and whisper around me, but my chest feels heavy, restless.

What’s wrong with me? Why am I so… concerned about him? He’s just a worker at the café. A stranger. Someone I shouldn’t even remember. And yet—

I sigh, shaking my head. Focus, Elco. Focus.

The bell rings. Dismissal.

I pack my things quickly, grab an umbrella, and head down to the canteen. A sandwich. That’s all I need. Something to keep me going while I work later. Normal things. Ordinary things.

But the rain greets me again as I step outside, harder now, pounding the pavement. I clutch the sandwich bag tight, quickening my steps toward my apartment. Just a few more blocks, and I’ll be home. Warm. Dry.

Then I see him.

A hooded figure, mask covering half his face, walking slowly in the storm. My heart skips. Familiar. Too familiar.

Is that… him?

My feet stop moving. The street to my apartment is just ahead, but instead of turning, I follow. My umbrella trembles in my grip as I trail after him, the rain splashing against my shoes.

"Hey!" I call out, my voice sharp against the storm. "Are you okay?"

He doesn’t turn. Not even a glance. He just tilts his head up toward the sky, rain soaking his hood.

Something twists in my chest. I don’t think. I just run. My bag, my notebook, everything inside it gets wet, but I don’t care.

I sprint closer, reaching out—

And then he collapses.

I hold him in my arms, my hands are shaking..

"Hey!" My voice cracks as I drop beside him, sandwich forgotten, umbrella falling to the ground. My hands are on his shoulders, trying to shake him awake, trying to lift him into a sitting position. His body is heavy, limp. Rain runs down both our faces, cold and merciless.

"Wake up," I whisper urgently. "Come on, don’t do this to me—"

My palm presses against his forehead. Heat burns into my skin. He’s burning up. Fever.

I rip his mask away without thinking.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

My heart stumbles, races, trips over itself. His face—pale, sharp, beautiful even in weakness. Tall, fair-skinned, striking. A stranger, and yet not.

I can’t breathe.

What is happening to me?

"Badum… badum…" my own heartbeat mocks me, louder, faster.

The rain pours harder, but I don’t notice anymore. All I see is him.

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