Whispers of Doubt

The blue of Zoid’s hair seemed to absorb the dim lamplight of the cafe, a vibrant contrast to the muted tones of the afternoon. They stirred their lukewarm coffee, the spoon clinking a lonely rhythm against the ceramic. Across from them, Maya, a whirlwind of bright scarves and even brighter opinions, watched with an almost predatory gaze.

“So,” Maya began, her voice a low hum, “you going to tell me what’s got you looking like a storm cloud that’s lost its lightning bolt, or am I going to have to resort to mind-reading?”

Zoid offered a weak smile, the corners of their mouth not quite reaching their eyes. “It’s just… stuff.”