Don’t cry

“Hic-hic—uh… sniff-sniff.”

Hearing my apology, Georgia burst into tears, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face in her hands.

“Uh, hey, Georgia, I said I’m sorry… please stop crying!” My face twitched with panic as I noticed a group of burly, ape-faced men rising from their benches, their eyes locked onto me.

“Oye, lad, what the fuck did you just say?” A man in a cheap brown shirt and black trousers yelled, his voice rough like gravel. He looked like a construction worker.

“Is she your lover or something? Even if she is, shouting that in public… with kids around? Are you nuts?” Another man, older, dressed in a well-pressed suit, scoffed. He looked like a merchant.

“Nah,” the construction worker cut in, eyes narrowing. “Then why would she cry if she was his lover? Bastard must’ve done something to her.”

“I—I’m fine…” Georgia finally muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Georgia, I—” I reached out, but before I could finish, she turned and ran, lifting the hem of her gown as she disappeared down the left street. Embarrassed. Humiliated.

I stared at her retreating figure, my stomach twisting. What have I done…

I stared at her retreating silhouette, the weight of what I’d done sinking in. What have I done…

“It’s a misunderstanding, gentlemen!” Johan’s voice cut through the tension as he stepped in front of me, blocking the men’s advance. His expression was calm, but his stance was firm, as if pacifying wild animals.

“It’s just a couple’s quarrel—please try to understand. My friend… well, he’s a bit mentally challenged,” Johan added, his tone shifting to one of pleading sincerity.

The men exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Finally, one of them, the largest and most ape-faced of the group, spoke gruffly. “I see… but you’d better keep a close eye on someone like him. Next time, things might not end so peacefully, and we could also include authorities in this, and you know lad how that ends for commoners.”

They gave me a long, hard look before turning back to their seats.

“Mentally challenged?” I hissed under my breath at Johan, who smirked, nudging me in the ribs.

He smirked, nudging me in the ribs. “You’re welcome.” There was a smug satisfaction in his voice—revenge for this morning, no doubt. But, at the end of the day, he had still saved my ass.

I barely acknowledged him as my gaze drifted back to the empty street where Georgia had vanished, her absence leaving a hollow ache in my chest. I wanted to chase her, to explain myself, but my feet felt rooted to the ground, as I don’t know myself what’s wrong with me either.

Johan sighed, folding his arms. “But seriously, you need to chill the fuck out.” His voice was sharp now. “First, calling a dying old lady a bitch in front of her teenage daughter, and now this? Saying something like that out of nowhere—”

I didn’t respond. He didn’t expect me to.

Thankfully we didn’t have to deal with those awkward gazes longer, as I noticed a carriage coming, which was towards the direction of my house. The carriage stoped near the wooden coach station. We walked over and climbed inside. A few other passengers joined us. The driver gave us a brief glance before muttering, “Tell me when to drop you.”

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Public carriages like this usually traveled between major crossroads, stopping wherever passengers needed. I leaned back against the wooden seat, letting the afternoon sun heal me a bit.

‘What a truly bizarre day, Is this even possible? I feel like I’ve lived a month in just a single day! Why is everything happening today? I also made Georgia cry, I think my reputation would definitely ruined if anyone learned of it… especially my sister, she’s good friends with her, she will kill me if she learned of it…But seriously why did I even say that?’

Because she’s beautiful? Well, of course, she is. Even back when I was sixteen or seventeen, I found myself drawn to her. But love? No, I don’t think so. It’s simpler than that—just the way my eyes linger on the curve of her hips, the way her soft, red lips part when she speaks, the pale smoothness of her skin that catches the light just right. A thought, fleeting yet persistent, something primal and unspoken.

Not that I’d ever say it out loud.

She’s my neighbor. My sister’s friend. Someone I’ve known for years. To cross that line—it would be wrong, wouldn’t it? I know it is, I respect her. That’s why it feels so–so weird, why would then… Why did I say that out loud?

As I sat in silence thinking, my gaze drifted to Johan, the blonde-haired man sitting on my right side. He sat upright, his posture rigid, yet at ease—like a soldier at rest but never off guard. His sharp eyes moved from one passenger to the next, studying them with quiet intensity. A flicker of recognition at a nervous twitch, a slight narrowing of his gaze at a clenched jaw—he was reading them, dissecting them, as if each shift in their body language told a story only he could understand.

The carriage rocked gently with the uneven cobblestone road, its wooden frame groaning with each turn. It was cramped, the scent of sweat and damp fabric hanging thick in the air. Ten passengers filled the space, yet each seemed locked away in their own world. A woman near the front clutched a rosary, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer. Beside her, a man dozed with his chin resting against his chest, lulled by the carriage’s rhythmic sway, probably tired from his day's work. Two merchants muttered in hushed voices, their conversation punctuated by wary glances, fingers tapping against their knees—perhaps discussing a deal, or something more illicit.

The dim lantern hanging from the ceiling swayed with the movement, casting shifting shadows that danced across their faces. The only sound, aside from the creaking wood and the muffled clatter of hooves, was the occasional cough or the rustle of fabric as someone shifted in their seat. The world outside passed unseen, reduced to the blurred outlines of buildings and flickering lamplight against the carriage’s small, dust-covered windows.

The man in front of me slumped against the carriage’s wooden panel, his mouth hanging open, breathing slow and heavy. A thin string of saliva glistened at the corner of his lips, stretching downward before snapping onto his shirt. My stomach twisted. I tore my gaze away, but the image clung to my mind, stubborn and revolting. I squeezed my eyes shut, but even in darkness, I saw it—saw it too clearly. My lips curled in disgust.

The carriage groaned to a halt. The jolt sent passengers shifting in their seats, some stirring awake, others gathering their belongings in silence. Outside, the city unfolded in restless motion. 77 Crossroads, Wellington. The name meant little to most, just another junction in the empire’s sprawling veins, but to me, it was home.

I stepped down, the weight of today’s event lifting slightly as my boots met solid ground. To the right, past the baker’s stall perfumed with yeast and sugar, stood my house—second to last on the street. Or was it? The street opened at both ends, bleeding into the city’s chaos, which meant second-to-last could also be second. A pointless thought.

Wellington—no, Thornfield Empire—was a beast of a city. Crowded. Suffocating. The streets pulsed with bodies moving in every direction, shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, merchants shouted their wares, and the scent of sweat, roasted meat, and damp stone mingled in the thick air. It got tight around here, especially in the capital. Space wasn’t a thing you owned—it was something you fought for.

The problem was the small bakery was the same one Georgia worked in. Will I be stoned to death as I enter the street?

To be continued……………..

Author’s note:: Is this writing style better?? Add it to your follows already… If you want to, I am feeling like a worm, I should be a better writer, Why can’t I write as good as Guilty three or Cf, Why not me? Why am I not good enough? I want money too, I have nothing to show for as an adult no income, Writing this novel instead of going back to college, or getting my job back at Mcdonald’s. Fuck I hate it!