He’s staring at me again…
The barista gave a gentle wave, looking up from his freshly-brewed coffee. It feels like every time I come, he’s there, watching me intently. Ugh, I can hardly focus on my studies with this creep haunting my thoughts. If you want something, just ask! Don’t just stare at your customer!
“Troon! What are you looking at?”
I turn to meet her eyes, “Huh? Oh, nothing.”
“We should get going soon. Grandpa said we’re making banana bread tonight.”
“One sec…… alright, let’s go.”
“K. Don’t forget: you can’t get boba here without me when I go on my trip, okay?”
“I won’t forget!”
“Promise me you’ll never have boba without me!”
“Hmmm… Alright, fine,” I chuckle, bumping her hoof to finalise the deal. I swear, even as I chat with my sister, that barista is still looking at me.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The second I open the door, I can smell the intense odour of pine. Grandma and Grandpa must not have thrown out the Christmas tree yet. As I enter, my grandparents greet my sister and I. They had just finished preparing the kitchen for our imminent baking escapades. We were ushered in at once to begin.
We worked for a few hours on the heavenly staple food. Flour, butter, sugar, bananas, all thrown together into a perfect dough and added to the loaf-pan. Excited at the prospects of the meal, I dash to the oven where the pan must finally rest. After a full hour in the fiery inferno, it was ready. Drawing out the clean toothpick, I removed the pan from the oven and breathed in the warm banana vapours. The banana bread was perfect.
We quickly went to the living room and sat down with our bread, one slice each. Within mere moments, the freshly-baked bread had vanished, and none but a few crumbs remained on the platter.
After an exciting, banana bread-filled night, I finally return to my bedroom. Despite all the thrill of baking, however, my thoughts still drift toward that barista. He stares at me every day, that same warm smile stretched across his face, yet he never seems to glance at the other customers.
One would think that such thoughts would keep a pony up all night, yet somehow, who knows when, I fell asleep. I have a feeling I dreamt of something, but the memories of it have long since faded from my mind.
The sun tore through the blinds and forced me out of bed in a sort of half-conscious stumble. I wander into the living room and find myself greeted by a warm meal waiting on the counter. My grandparents are already up and about, taking care of all the housework faster than I can thank them for their efforts. My grandfather walks over to me as soon as he hears me every morning.
“Morning, Poltroon twirl! Breakfast is all ready. Would you mind getting Quill Weaver?”
“Mm,” I mumble, barely awake. I take a breath to prepare myself before gently knocking on the door. As always, I enter the room and turn on the lamp. With softened footsteps, I approach the bed, fully expecting her to somehow be under the perfectly flat covers, and place my hoof upon the bed.
Wait…where is she? The bed is neatly covered by two blankets, no sign of recent use. The only thing on the bed is a small rubber duck dressed as Shui Da from “The Good Person of Sichuan.” I didn’t think she ever had rubber ducks, even as a young foal, let alone such a vicious and pragmatic character. I carefully pick up the rubber duck, only for it to violently explode in a flurry of pink gladioli, my favourite flower. Like snow, the petals gently fluttered to the ground around me. It seems quite miraculous how so many flowers could be confined by a single, meagre rubber duck. They, innumerous as the questions left at the end of a well-told tragedy, almost simultaneously end their flight upon reaching the floor of the bedroom, but despite the magician-esque display, my sister, still, was unexposed.
I shook myself: now was no time for romantic thoughts. There was no trace of her anywhere in the room and, as far as I know, there’s nowhere she would be going so early in the morning. I searched every inch of the room, yet there was nothing. It was as though she had never existed in the first place.
In a panic, I rushed out of the room to tell my grandparents, “Are you sure she isn’t out here? I couldn’t find even a trace of her in her room.”
“I’m sure I didn’t see her, and I always hear you guys come into the living room, but you can check if you want.”
Grandma spoke in a calm tone. Although difficult, I resisted the urge to waste my time explaining more thoroughly. It didn’t matter anyway; soon enough, she would understand the severity of the situation.
I hurried about, checking every possible location of the four-room apartment. There was nopony in the bathroom, nopony in the kitchen, nopony but my grandparents in the living room. I could scarcely believe what lay before me: Quill Weaver was gone.
“She’s really gone!” I cried, bursting out of the bathroom.
I could see their eyes fill with terror in an instant. It didn’t make sense, she would never just leave like this. Something was horribly wrong.
They could believe it no more than I, and, after checking the house once more to confirm, grabbed the phone and dialled 110. Swift as the U-Bahn, the case was reported and an alert sent out.
My mind raced, every possible event playing itself in my head. I could do nothing but sit there, shaking, and hope for the best. The morning passed by in a flash and before I knew it, it came time for me to head to class. Still trembling, I got up, grabbed my things, and headed out the door, forsaking the two plates of cold, soggy waffles and deflated whipped cream.