“That’s even better,” he said, digging into his backpack. “You fell into danger! And then you survived. That’s what makes it cool.”
He pulled out a handful of markers—mostly black and blue, a few red—and unscrewed the cap of one with his teeth. “Hold still,” he said around the marker, leaning across the table.
“What are you doing?” I asked, pulling my arm back.
“Making you a superhero, duh,” he said like it was obvious. “Don’t worry, I’m, like, an amazing artist. Trudy won’t care if we take a while.”
I sighed but rested my arm on the table, letting him go to work. Cahya leaned in, his tongue sticking out as he drew big, wobbly lightning bolts around the scar. Then he added a star, a shield, and what I think were flames, but they looked more like squiggles.
“There!” he said, sitting back to admire his work. “You’re Super Wynter! The Ice God! You can fly, fight bad guys with ice blocks, and… uh, maybe shoot lasers from your eyes. Yeah, definitely lasers.”
I looked down at the mess of colors on my arm and felt something shift in my chest. The scar didn’t look so sharp anymore, didn’t feel like a weight I had to carry. It felt like a story, a part of me that wasn’t so scary now.
“You think superheroes have scars?” I asked, glancing at him.
“Of course they do,” Cahya said. “The coolest ones, anyway. And we’re gonna be best friends forever, so don’t forget me when you’re famous.” He held out his pinky, his face serious.
I hesitated, then hooked my pinky around his. “Best friends forever,” I promised.
For the rest of the day, I didn’t hide my arm. Even when we walked out of Trudy’s and the markers started to smudge in the heat, I kept it in the sun. Somehow, it didn’t feel like a scar anymore. It felt like something brave.
PRESENT DAY
Wynters POV
I asked Cahya to meet me at Willows, a little cafe down the street to talk.
ME: Hi can we talk, are you busy?
CAHYA: ……
ME: ???
CAHYA: What did I do this time. I am innocent!
ME: You didn’t do anything, unfortunately, this time it’s all me. Meet me at willows?
CAHYA: But it’s raining.
ME: Bring a jacket??? Maybe?? Crazy idea I know.
CAHYA: Fine, but if this is how I go down and end up in one of those serial killer documentaries, I will never forgive you.
The café was miniature, sheltered into a secluded part of a quiet street. It’s windows streaked with rain. The storm blurred the world into soft greys. However, the inside was much warmer with the golden glow of Edison bulbs, casting long shadows, over wooden tables, worn, smooth age. I sat by the window, staring out with a mug of coffee in my hands, the smell of roasted beans,and the sound of clinking ceramic cups, and golfed my senses, but I could barely register anything over the knot in my stomach.
What on earth was I to say to him in the first place to make it sound even remotely reasonable? I thought to myself, would he be angry, annoyed, laugh at me and think I was joking, would he tell me that I was too late and that I had no right to ask for something like this after all these years? Every time the bell at the door jingled my heart leapt only to sink again when it wasn’t Cahya.
This time, I looked up to see him stepping inside, his hoodie damp and clinging to his shoulders, his hair curling slightly from the rain. He shook off a bit of water and scanned the room, his sharp eyes landing on me.
I fidgeted with the sleeve of my jacket, unsure where to start. “Thanks for meeting me,” I said, my voice quieter than I’d meant.
“Yeah, of course man,” Cahya said, his tone casual, but his gaze was sharp. “What’s this about?”
“I think you know…” I foreshadowed.
“Dude, you think I know? Last I checked I’m not psychic.” He chuckled.
“You may not know, but I think that you knowmewell enough to have an inkling about what I’m about to say.”
