Like everyone else, Crys Reed had been born a magician.

  When he smiled, adults smiled back.

  When he stepped outside, the weather cleared.

  When he begged for ice cream, his parents filled his bowl to the brim.

  He never questioned why his wishes came true. He never had to.

  To Crys, the world was always bright—always shimmering.

  Once he entered elementary school, he devoured novels about magicians more eagerly than his textbooks. He was sure they held what he’d truly need in life.

  The Magic Academy series became his constant companion, from beginner volumes to advanced ones. Spells and circles, potions and star charts—he read until he knew them by heart, ready for the day he might need them.

  He’d never been confident about flying on a broom, so instead he poured himself into something else.

  A wand of his own making.

  His parents never told him to “grow up.” Even as other kids drifted toward games and crushes, they seemed genuinely glad Crys hadn’t forgotten magic. His mother, Amelia, taught him sweets and simple dishes while talking about herbs and their uses. His father, Cillian, brought home stones from the ravine and presented them like treasures from a lost city—solemn as a priest offering prayers.

  Magic wasn’t a Halloween costume.

  It was just… life.

  One night, during family movie time, Crys marched into the living room wearing a cloak, wand in hand. Applause greeted him. He bowed—slow and deliberate—and recited a spell.

  Amelia laughed and raised her wand.

  Cillian stepped forward, holding a single piece of cloth.

  “Aim for the center.”

  The moment Crys finished—

  his father vanished.

  Only the cloth fell to the floor. Cillian was gone. Nowhere.

  Crys froze.

  Cold spread through his chest, squeezing the air out of him.

  —I erased him. I don’t know any spell to bring him back.

  The thought stabbed through him, sharp with terror.

  A second later, Cillian stepped out from behind the sofa, and Amelia pretended nothing had happened—both of them desperate to calm the sobbing boy.

  Even so, the tears wouldn’t stop.

  Because magic was real.

  And sometimes it changed people in ways you couldn’t undo.

  That was what Crys believed.

  But like most people, Crys lost his magic one day.

  He was nine, the morning after a storm. He woke to a sound like a scream—his father’s voice, cracking.

  In his parents’ room, his mother looked like she was asleep. But her skin was wax-pale, and the air smelled only of rain. It didn’t register at first that this was death—only that something irreversible had happened.

  His body understood before his mind did.

  Crys prayed—then tried every spell he could remember. In panic, he even reached for the forbidden book—Spells Never to Be Used.

  Still, his mother didn’t wake.

  In the days before the burial, people clung to Cillian, pitying him in confusion. They looked at Crys too—hollow, unmoving—with the same faces.

  None of it helped.

  Eventually, Crys understood.

  His mother was dead.

  And the magic that had always granted wishes had been useless when it mattered most.

  From that day on, the world changed.

  Adults didn’t automatically smile anymore.

  The sky betrayed him unless he checked the forecast.

  Ice cream wasn’t in the freezer unless someone bought it.

  —There had never been any magic at all.

  That was the only way he could keep going.

  He shut away the cloak, the wand, the books—pushed them all to the back of the closet—and stopped being a magician.

  As an ordinary child, he slowly lost his shine. He spoke less. People drifted away. The stretches of time he spent alone grew longer.

  It would be a lie to say he wasn’t lonely.

  But being left alone was far easier than trying to face someone.

  That… hadn’t changed.

  Not even now, in high school.

  ?

  Ping.

  The email notification sounded before his alarm, and Crys woke slowly, letting out a small breath.

  —Feels like I was dreaming about something…

  He stared at the ceiling for a while, then reached for his phone.

  Just before six. If it hadn’t gone off, he could’ve slept longer.

  Squinting at the screen, he read the notification—basically yelling at him in bright letters.

  Creator: Awake. A new world awaits!

  —Yeah. I’m awake now.

  He snorted at the outdated spam, stretched, and sat up.

  His days always began with the same routine—one that made him want to quit before he even started.

  Brush his teeth.

  Wash his face.

  Try to comb the stubborn hair that had grown long enough to fall into his eyes—

  —and give up halfway through.

  He hated looking at himself: hunched, scrawny. So he avoided the mirror as he got ready.

  He pulled on an oversized hoodie that hid his thin frame and headed downstairs.

  And ran straight into Cillian at the front door, hand already on the knob.

  Just go. Don’t notice me, he wished silently.

  But Crys wasn’t a magician anymore.

  Cillian turned.

  Their eyes met—sharp, unavoidable.

  “Ah—Crys. Tonight, let’s have dinner together—”

  The moment he heard that voice, Crys knew the day was ruined.

  He didn’t wait for Cillian to finish.

  He stomped back upstairs, threw himself onto his bed, and lay there staring at nothing.

  —Worst.

  Because he’d woken up early, he’d run into the one person he didn’t want to see.

  A father always watching his son’s mood—timid, hesitant, the kind of man who probably got walked over at work.

  How pathetic.

  I don’t want to end up like that.

  He shoved his headphones on, blasted his playlist, and closed his eyes.

  When he checked his phone again, it was already fifteen minutes past the time he was supposed to leave.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  He’d fallen asleep without meaning to.

  Cursing under his breath, he grabbed his backpack, didn’t bother tying his shoelaces properly, and bolted out the door. He slammed his foot onto the bike pedal and tore down the street.

  On the way, a group of elementary kids spilled out of a bus, and he pushed even harder.

  It was only the start of the school year, and he absolutely refused to sit through Mrs. Hutchinson’s lecture twice in one month.

  Just before the bell, Crys slid into the classroom, breathless, eyes scanning for an open seat.

  The only spots left were beside Larry Franke—the nosy chatterbox—

  —or beside Junaid Jace, the school’s delinquent.

  Crys’s shoulders sank.

  With no real choice, he sat next to Larry.

  The second he pulled out the chair, Larry lit up. His bulky, mayo-stuffed body wobbled as he scooted his desk closer.

  “Cutting it close again, Chris. Don’t you have anyone to wake you up?”

  From the first word, Crys’s nerves snapped.

  He clicked his tongue in annoyance, but Larry didn’t care.

  “You should set more alarms. My mom still can’t wake up even with five, so I wake her. I can give you a morning call too, Chris. What’s your number?”

  “No thanks. And how many times do I have to say this? It’s Cry-us. If you’re going to get it wrong, don’t talk to me.”

  He made it clear the conversation was over, propped his elbow on the desk, and turned away.

  Larry kept going anyway—about leaving the fridge open because it was hot, about how his Boy Scout rank might go up, about how he planned to dress up as some anime character next month for Halloween.

  That last part tugged at Crys’s attention, just a little.

  But he had no intention of engaging.

  He slid his headphones on—slowly, deliberately—so there could be no misunderstanding.

  Even after class, Larry wouldn’t let go.

  “Hey, Chris, let’s walk home together. There’s an ice cream cart on Main Street now. I’ve had butter pecan like fifteen times already. The lady there really likes me—if you come with me, she might even give you an extra half scoop.”

  Larry probably thought they were the same kind of people.

  Quiet. Unremarkable. Cut from the same cloth.

  He spoke too loudly, as if broadcasting to everyone that he had a friend.

  He’d been like this all day.

  Crys had reached his limit.

  He grabbed Larry’s thick arm and dragged him out into the hallway. When he whirled around to glare at him, Larry’s eyes sparkled—like he thought this was what friends did.

  That only made it worse.

  “I’ve got plans. So no.”

  He said it low, then poked Larry’s round nose with one finger.

  Larry still didn’t back down.

  “Oh! Right, it was sudden. Then next week? Monday’s Rocky Road, Tuesday’s banana split—”

  “Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.”

  Crys’s voice went flat.

  “I’ve got plans. Every day.”

  He thought that would end it.

  But Larry still looked like he might keep talking.

  Watching his face, a small, mean thought slid into Crys’s mind.

  “If you’re that desperate to eat ice cream with someone… why don’t you go with Junaid?”

  The moment the name left his mouth, the color drained from Larry’s face.

  And when he went pale, a small, ugly satisfaction rose in Crys’s chest.

  —Serves you right.

  He turned on his heel.

  “Me?”

  The voice dropped down from above—low, heavy as distant thunder.

  Crys turned slowly.

  A huge body blocked the hallway light. His face was shadowed out. The moment Crys looked up, he hugged his bag to his chest without realizing it.

  Junaid.

  Deep lines carved into his brow. Scars people whispered about—how he’d kept swinging even after the other guy stopped back in middle school. Stories of boxing tournaments. Of strength so obvious it had been labeled dangerous.

  No one knew what was real.

  Only one thing was certain:

  You didn’t get involved with him.

  “Didn’t hear me?” Junaid said.

  “What were you just talking about.”

  Crys swallowed.

  Beside him, Larry opened his mouth—honest to a fault.

  “C-Chris said… m-maybe if I went to eat ice cream with—”

  Junaid’s mouth twisted, just slightly.

  “With me?”

  Larry nodded too fast—then panicked, shaking his head wildly.

  “Y-you’re busy, right? Haha, yeah, my bad. Guess I’ll catch you some other time—”

  “Sure,” Junaid said. “I’ll go with you.”

  He leaned in close, voice dropping even lower.

  “And after that…

  you’re coming with me for my business.”

  “Waaah—!”

  Larry threw his short arms into the air and bolted down the hallway. The crowd split around him in a way that looked almost unnatural.

  Crys could only stand there, staring after him.

  Slowly, he looked back.

  Junaid was still looking down at him, displeased.

  “You know—”

  —I’m going to get hit.

  Crys squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenched.

  But no blow came.

  “If you don’t want something,” Junaid said, “say it straight.”

  He wasn’t angry.

  If anything, it sounded almost like he was making fun of him.

  “You can only throw my name around like that… for so long.”

  He’d hit the mark.

  Crys bit his lip, unable to say anything back.

  Junaid snorted and walked away, heavy footsteps fading down the hall.

  Crys stood there until the broad back turned the corner and disappeared.

  When the tension finally drained from his shoulders, he scoffed—trying to sound tough.

  —Before you lecture people, take a look at yourself, delinquent.

  He started walking—

  then realized how much time he’d wasted.

  He checked his smartwatch.

  Damn it.

  No time to go home and drop off the bike.

  “Seriously… what kind of day is this?”

  He adjusted his backpack and hurried back toward the station.

  He pedaled so hard his hair probably looked like a bird’s nest, but somehow he made it to the train on time.

  Dropping into an empty seat, he let out a long breath, not caring who saw.

  He’d been running since morning.

  Pestered by Larry.

  And then Junaid on top of that.

  What a miserable day.

  He glanced sideways and caught his own gloomy reflection in the window.

  On reflex, he grabbed his phone—forcing his eyes away from the version of himself for whom nothing ever seemed to go right.