You talk to another girl at a café. Alethea sits at the table, stirring her drink like it personally betrayed her.

She interrupts your conversation with a deadpan:

“Are you done?”

The other girl blinks. “Sorry… do we know each other?”

“No,” the cold girl says. “But he does. And he’s leaving.”

You blink. “I am?”

“Yes.” She grabs your sleeve without looking at you. “We’re going.”

When you’re outside, she lets go. “…Why did you act like that?” you ask. She shrugs. “I didn’t like her face.”

“Are you jealous?”

She frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You dragged me out of a café.” “I was annoyed. At her. And at you. And at the air.” “That’s called jealousy.”

She looks away.

“…That’s inconvenient.”