The dinner had passed quickly, with only minimal bouts of conversation. Twilight crunches loudly on the burned cookies you made for her as you look on eagerly. Her jaw moves in gigantic circles as she crunches the rock-hard confectionaries.

“How is it?”

“Greeeaat,” she smiles through watery eyes before briefly choking on what appears to be a crumb. “I’m actually going to go and turn in for the evening, though, if you don’t mind...I, uh, I’m not feeling the best.”

Thankfully, by the next day, Twilight had recovered from whatever mysterious ailment had suddenly struck her. When she walks into the dining room the next morning, she greets you merrily. “Good morning!”

“Good morning, Twilight!” you greet in return before taking a big sip of your coffee. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, yes, much better now,” she reassures you before taking a seat in the chair next to you. “Actually, I wanted to thank you so much for making dinner for me last night. I’m sorry I ran off..it really was a nice gesture!”

“I’m glad you thought so,” you exhale, readjusting your position in your chair. “I was a little worried I had offended you.”

Twilight scrunches up her muzzle but shakes her head quickly. “N-no, nothing like that. Anyway, it reminded me how lucky I am to have made a friend like you, and I’m going to really miss you when you leave.”

You smile a sad smile back at Twilight and nod in agreement. “I’ll miss you too, Twilight.”

Twilight reaches over and squeezes your hoof reassuringly. “Let’s enjoy the time you have left here. And, you can always come and visit! But, before that, I have a surprise to thank you for dinner; I had Spike make us breakfast! SPIKE!”

Spike waddles into the room with two thick stacks of buttermilk pancakes, topped with all sorts of fruit, whipped cream, and other goodies. He graciously slides a plate each in front of you and Twilight before sliding out of the room as elegantly as he entered.

Twilight wastes no time in digging into her stack. You, however, are a stallion of culture. Using a knife to take a glob of butter from the plate, you lift the top pancake up in order to butter the second flapjack.

What is staring back at you from the second-highest pancake, however, is a message written in syrup.

I TOLD

YOU SO

CHUMP

“Ah,” you grumble to yourself as you begin to spread the butter across the piping-hot pancake. “What does he know, anyway?”

OK ENDING 3