Though Ink was not one for superstition, on that Friday afternoon, the 13th, she began to think someone had it out for her.

She had decided to once again not ride home with Mac that day, leaving before he could talk to her, before any of the Apples could, actually. Her mind had wandered as she had, before she suddenly found herself just outside of Canterlot, looking up at the tall buildings with befuddlement. How had she gotten there? There was no point in questioning it, though, and besides, her mind was already going off on tangents. She had continued walking, trudging up the sidewalks, nearly approaching the city, when, all of a sudden, it began to pour.

It poured so much that in mere seconds Ink was soaking wet. She sought shelter under one of the bus stations outside of the city, but it didn’t help much. She was wet and cold and shivering as she sat at the station, arms crossed around her. Her hair, which she had poofed up a little this morning, was now drenched, damp and heavy, and she was only somewhat thankful that it was short now. The bench in the station where she sat was also cold, but thankfully it wasn’t wet, so she could at least sit in peace.

She had no inclination of taking the next bus. She also had no inclination to return back to the Apples’ home anytime soon. In truth she wanted to just sit and think, because at least doing so felt more productive than attempting to live there and put aside all that she had come to know in favor of some spellbound ignorance that she had been feeling seep into her bones. Only Apple Bloom was aware of her inner turmoil, but the girl could provide nothing to help her.

Alone, she might find her answers, but even then, it was cold and wet and she did not know if now was a good time to be thinking.

Cars came by but no buses had arrived yet. It was still pouring, the rain making light ting sounds against the station’s curved roof. The poster that was at the side was torn up, having already succumbed to the rain some time ago. She touched her face and brought her hand back fully wet. She blinked, frowning. The rain still poured on, and she didn’t know when it might stop.

And the sky was made black and dark by the clouds, and so were the people who passed by. All walked quickly, unwilling to wait even a moment in this downpour. She watched a few of them. She wondered what their lives were like when they were not running through the rain. What might their boots say of their habits, their clothes of their demons? Who among them were plagued, and who among them were lucky enough not to be?

She shook her head. Character studies? Really? At this hour? She was getting distracted; but maybe she was welcoming it, because otherwise she would have to confront what Apple Bloom had told her.

He deserves someone better. Someone like you.

Oh, why had she needed to go and say that? And why did it circle around her mind like dogs chasing cars? Why couldn’t she be rid of it?

She sighed, bending over her knees and holding her hands together. She was still shivering. Gradually the rain became nothing more than background noise against the concert that was her mind aflame.

A new sound entered the fray. Footsteps, quick and light. She glanced up just enough to see a pair of feet stomping and splashing their way towards the station, and instinctively she scooched over to give the person more room.

“Ah, thank you.” A male. His voice sounded deep and rich, though not as deep and as rich as Mac’s. She glanced a little up and saw he was wearing a pewter-colored jacket, Oxford loafers, and a raincoat that was more than a bit used. An umbrella was in his hands. He folded the umbrella and sat down next to her, the umbrella coming between his legs as he came down.

Something about him seemed so familiar, but Ink couldn’t place why. She didn’t feel like looking at him, though, or at much of anything, now. She looked at a puddle that was quickly forming in front of her.

“Are you here for the bus?” he asked.

“No,” she said after a moment. “I’m just here to think.”

The man nodded. “Ah, yes. To think. Is it good, thinking here?”

“... A little, I guess.”

“I like to think in the park while I run. Though sometimes the best ideas and thoughts come from a cup of coffee that you make in your apartment at seven in the morning while you sit in your favorite chair by the window and stare out at the city.”

Ink glanced a bit at the man. Carnation pink eyes stuck out from under his hood, and she was once again subjected to that strange feeling of having known this man from someplace else.

He smiled a little. “Sorry. Sometimes I get ahead of myself with those things.”

“No, it’s okay. It was nice, what you said.” She breathed in, then out, the breath coming as a white mist before vanishing forever.

“May I ask what you’re thinking about?”

She didn’t immediately answer. The puddle was still forming, with little ripples breaking the surface was rain trickled down into it. It was a dark puddle. She could see her reflection and the side of the man’s in it.

“You’re from Manehattan, aren’t you?” she said.

The man’s reflection blinked its one visible eye. “How’d you know?”

“I know a few people from there. The accent. It gives it away. But you hide it pretty well. So does a friend of mine.”

The man chuckled. “Well, you might say it sort of grew out of me. But I guess some roots are hard to dig up. Yes, I’m from Manehattan. West side.”

She nodded.

“You didn’t answer my question; is that because I am not allowed to ask?”

Somehow she felt compelled to satisfy his curiosity. Maybe it was because of that smile of his. It was inviting, made you think he knew you for all of your life, that you were at this moment the center of his attention—not quite in the way lovers would smile, Ink imagined, but the way a friend or a trusted confidante might. Or maybe it was his voice, so gentle yet so refined, striking of Manehattan grit but also Canterlot prestige. Or maybe it was just the rain and cold getting to her.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I guess it might help to have someone to talk to.” She wanted to talk to Big Mac, for some reason, but he wasn’t here, so this man would have to do.”

The man leaned back and crossed his legs. He brought his wrist up and checked his watch. “The bus won’t come for a little bit, so you can start whenever you like.”

She hesitated, thinking about what exactly she could tell him. “Well… I know these people.”

“Right.”

“And, you see, one of them, my friend—she’s in a bit of a predicament. She’s… confused, I guess, that’s the word I’d want to use. About how she feels. Y’know? Well, she’s confused about how she feels about this other person. This guy.” Her face burned as she said this. “Um. He’s helped her a lot, and they sort-of went on a dinner together—but they’re not dating, and, well, he’s dating this other girl— and this girl, she’s done some… questionable things, from what I—that is, she, the girl that I know—understands.”

“Go on.”

She would have immediately if her mind had not suddenly locked up. It was hard to explain the whole thing to a stranger. “So… the guy and this other girl are dating, as I said, but this other girl came up to m—the girl I know and basically said that the guy cares a lot for her. Now, you would think that’s fine and all on its own, but I guess Sug—I mean, the other girl was jealous or something, because she told my friend that the guy was hers. Not that she threatened m—her, or anything!” Ink added quickly.

“Can’t imagine why someone would threaten anyone.”

“Right, so… anyway, that thing has been on my friend’s mind ever since. And then yesterday the guy’s sister said sort of the same thing, that Mac cared for her. But then she explained what the other girl did, and she was angry, you know, she was furious. God, I’d never seen her so furious—I mean, my friend hadn’t! But then she got really sad and serious. And she said at the end that the boy deserves someone better than the girl he’s currently dating. That—that he deserves someone like my friend.”

She glanced at the stranger, her face most assuredly on fire, hoping that he hadn’t caught any of the lies. He appeared not to, and though most of his face was hidden behind the hood, he was still listening intently. She took in a breath. “So… my friend came to me, told me all about this. And… I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t know what to do. It’s all so… so…”

“Confusing?”

“Yeah.”

The man nodded. “Many love stories are.” Ink sputtered, and the man smiled. “Your friend,” he said carefully, “must trust you very much to tell you this.”

“Y-yeah…”

“That’s good. You know, the first step to solving any problem is recognizing that there is one. Do you agree?”

“I think so.”

The man nodded again. “Now, allow me to summarize: your friend isn’t sure how to feel towards a certain boy, primarily because he’s dating someone else, someone whom your friend is not entirely sure how to feel about, either; and perhaps the whole situation isn’t something your friend knows how best to deal with. And that brings us to now.”

“Y… yes?”

“Good answer,” he said with a chuckle. “Like I said, many love stories are complicated. Even real-life ones.” He raised an eyebrow. “Though, if I had half a mind to guess, I would ask if this was not some plot for a romance story?”

“N-No! It’s all real, really!”

“Just checking.”

He was silent. He was probably thinking it all over, Ink realized, and then again so was she. She leaned back into the seat, the rain still pouring, the puddle still growing, the cars and people still coming, and still no bus in sight. “It’s a mess,” she mumbled, “and I don’t know what to do.”

“It is a mess, all right,” the stranger beside her agreed. “I’d ask what it is that you’ve gotten yourself into, but I suppose that’s entirely irrelevant.” She sputtered again. “Now, would you like to hear what I think?”

Since she could not stop him if she tried, she simply nodded.

“I think that the path of love is going to be complicated no matter what you do, because that’s what love is: complicated. But if you truly do love someone you will face those complications and you won’t shy away from them just because they are hard. Love isn’t possession of someone, or saying someone is your boyfriend or girlfriend, or any of that. Love is all about acceptance, acceptance of the complications and the flaws, just as much as it is acceptance of the other things, the things that you will truly love: the mornings, or the evenings, that you spend with someone, the way they laugh, the crinkle in their cheeks when they’re genuinely smiling. Do you understand?”

“I…” She thought she did, actually. Though words would not form then, she thought she understood exactly what the man was saying.

“Recognizing love, ah, that’s the hard part,” the stranger continued. “People have tried to quantify it, reduce it to mere scientific definition and situation. In my experience, you don’t need concrete proof or an Empirical set of data to determine when you’re in love; you’ll know what it is when you have it. It’s human nature, see. It’s human nature to know what love is. It’s one of those primal forces that every person knows, like light, or darkness, or warmth. It’s intrinsic, or perhaps a better word is deep-rooted.”

The man frowned. “Well, maybe there isn’t a better word. For things like this, I’ve found that words are so tragically limited. But we have to try to put words to these things, because words are our primary means of communication, and perhaps we just need to keep searching for the best word in the whole language to get things right.”

“Right…”

“I see I’ve lost you.”

“No, it’s… I get it, I think. I really do. But—”

“But how do you know know?” Here, the man smiled again. “That’s what we all ask ourselves at some point. I know, too, that it is odd to simply say that you must feel love and that is to know it; or, to say that you have to trust that you feel love when it might be there.”

He looked away, down the road. “Your friend. Do you believe she loves him?”

Ink hesitated. “I… I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything, now.”

“Uncertainty is scary. It is not without its peril. But I think that’s when you know you are on the precipice of a momentous realization. You no longer are jumping blindly in, nor are you so forcibly ignorant to things that you would turn away from the world. You are in the middle, where your brain has stopped, and where you must let your heart tell you the truth that you need to know.”

“My heart? The truth?”

It was growing too late, now. Down the road where the man looked, Ink could see the massive headlights of the bus creaking towards them steadily. The man would be leaving soon. And he realized this, too, evidently, for he suddenly uncrossed his legs and flapped his umbrella in front of him, shaking off the water.

“It’s cliche to say,” the man said. “But are not truths that are cliche still truths? Are they not strong and powerful, at least as strong and powerful as the belief behind them?”

He was quoting something. A speech? No, a monologue; a monologue Ink had read some time ago. The man, the stranger, that familiarity surrounding him…

He was still talking, finishing it up. “Among all things unknown, this I know to be certain: follow your heart, and it will reveal all answers.” He was smiling at her when the bus came up, him and his carnation-pink eyes, the darkness of his pewter skin, the familiarity of his face springing up. She knew him. Or, more specifically, of him.

But then the doors of the bus shut. It began to wobble out of the station away from her and into the darkness of that afternoon. She watched it go. Her heart was thundering. And yet…

She found herself smiling. Her heart was thundering in her chest but it felt focused. Transformed, in a way. Not that she knew why, but something had changed. Maybe she had. Had she found her answer to the mess? She didn’t know, but that now didn’t stop her from smiling.

The rain stopped shortly after, and the rest of that Friday was showered in golden sunshine.

Mac was upstairs with a vacuum cleaner, cleaning. He had been the first one home and was actually the only one in, now. It was a disconcerting scene for him, so used to the usual rabble that came from the home. With him only, it was quieter than ever before.

He had taken to cleaning because that was one of the chores they were supposed to do. He had done some of his homework first, though not all— that was for Sunday’s completion. He had taken then the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and had begun to suck up the dirt and grime that had accumulated over the past several days when he had come up the stairs and had stood outside of Ink’s room.

She wasn’t in there.

Seeing that she wasn’t filled him with an odd sense of sorrow. He wanted to give her the sunhat he and Sugar Belle had bought, but he wasn’t sure of when. Her birthday only? Or sooner? Was waiting for then too much?

There were other thoughts on his mind as he cleaned her room. Some rested on Sugar Belle. They’d be going out to dinner tomorrow night at the restaurant where he and Ink had dined—Sugar Belle had been the one to pick it out, which he figured was pure coincidence. The other thoughts rested on Ink, though, and these were prevalent and pervasive, strong and stuck in his mind like a song on repeat. And it was a good song, he decided between the cleaning and thinking.

Soon he had finished Ink’s room, then went to his sisters’ rooms and cleaned them, too. His thoughts turned angry. They still hadn’t accepted that he and Sugar Belle were together. But the more rational side of him understood why, and that same side wasn’t sure why it had happened again in the first place. He was drawn to her. And besides, Ink was with Braeburn now…

He paused. Where had that thought come from? It had sprung up out of nowhere, yet felt as thought he had always had it somewhere in the back of his mind. He shrugged and got back to cleaning. Still that thought persisted throughout. He did his best to ignore it.

With upstairs complete, he came back down and put the vacuum cleaner away. He crossed the living room into the dining room, where a bowl of nuts had been set. He picked out a few, chewing on them quietly, looking out of the house into the distant fields.

I never told her about my parents, he suddenly thought. He was not thinking about Sugar Belle. He was thinking about Ink.

He tried to force his thoughts elsewhere, and thought about the night to come. Yet he found he could not get excited about it. Something felt wrong. Off. What exactly, he didn’t know, or if there was anything off anyway.

He sat down at the table, alone with his thoughts. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe that was why, when Sugar Belle had placed the reservations, he hadn’t been smiling.

Something in the table cover intrigued him. There was some sort of form underneath, obscured by the tapestry. After finishing his cashews and pushing the bowl to the side, he slowly peeled the cover off, still thinking much of Sugar Belle and tomorrow night; but then those thoughts vanished when he saw it.

A red and black USB stick. Not just any, though. Ink’s.

His mind went back to the poster, the contest, the story. He reached out, holding the device in his palm. It seemed so small, and yet he knew that inside was held the contents of Ink’s greatest treasure. And perhaps, in a way, her heart.

She had lost it, he realized. Probably during one of the weeks gone by. And perhaps she didn’t even realize it was gone.

After a moment longer of looking at the stick, he placed it into his pocket, intent on giving it to Ink soon. No sense it leaving it behind to be lost once again.

Outside, the sun had come out, and now the dirt fields were covered golden.

And elsewhere, still, thoughts were on that purple-haired girl caught up in something she could not understand. And these thoughts were shared by another girl, the other girl, who, staring out of her apartment with Night Glider, saw the golden sunshine raining down, and thought, I hope tomorrow is as beautiful as this.

She had thought of what she had wanted to say to Mac that night and could think of no better time to do so. It would be about her and Mac, but also Ink, and about who the two were. She did not anticipate much joy in the endeavor. She would be asking for him to choose, but she knew he would choose her. He had chosen her when she had come to the door and so he would choose her again. It was certain. It was foretold.

You love me, don’t you? Come on, Mac, say that you do. Say that you love me. I know you do.

These were her words that she would say, and she thought—hoped—they would be enough.

Sugar Belle watched as the sunshine traveled the streets. There was something magical in that sunshine. Something akin to miracles. Or luck, maybe.

And then, without warning, without fanfare, Saturday was upon them.