Ditzy Doo sucks absent-mindedly on the straw of her juice box, her ears drooping to reflect her glumness and embarrassment.

“Aw, I’m such a screw-up,” she pines, “I was gonna give you some muffins I baked myself - chocolate ones, your favourite! - but I got ‘em mixed with little Dinky‘s lunch.”

“Now, now, anypony could’ve done that,” you lean in slightly, assuring her, “It was just a one-off mistake, these things happen.”

“Yeah, but not as much as they happen to me!” she sniffs, “Just today I’ve trodden on one of Dinky’s toys, went past the Post Office to Sharpquill Mare’s house ‘cuz he said he’d give me a lift to work, crashed twice on my mail round, dropped a cup of coffee over somepony’s desk, and now this!”

With that, she slinks further down her seat, still nursing the juice box, until her head rests awkwardly on the table. You place a hoof on her shoulder.

“Listen, Ditzy, I can see how stuff like that would get you down, but there’s a silver lining to most things. I bet good things happened today, too.”

She perks up ever-so-slightly. “Well, yeah! This cool pink pony at the sweet shop gave me a free sample of fudge for delivering her cookbook.” she then sits herself back up straight, “And Dinky managed to recite her six-times-tables his morning without a hitch, so I know she’ll do great at the maths test!”

“See?” you nudge her playfully, “There’s always a bright side to look out for. I mean, Sharpquill Mare telling you he‘d pick you up was a bit of a jerk move on his part, but he‘s a spoilt jerk anyway, no matter who he‘s related to. Don‘t let the little things get you down.”

And with that, you do something you know she loves; you light-heartedly ruffle her golden mane, causing her to smirk a little. Her pretty snout scrunches up for a moment, as if holding something back. And then she bursts out into a sweet, melodic giggle. A few of the ponies who were having their lunch on the other table glanced over at the scene, shrugged (they were used to Ditzy Doo being Ditzy Doo by now) and resumed their midday meal.

After her laughter dies down a little, she gives you a smile; a giddy, affectionate, and contagious smile that…

…that gave you that weird feeling again.

“Thanks, buddy.” she beams.

“Don’t mention it.” you can’t help but smile back. A minute or two quietly passes as you eat and talk together, the same way you did every other lunch break. This time, however, seems different. Your friend gives the impression that she’s on edge about something.

“Ditzy, you don’t have to worry about getting me those muffins,” you say, “It was really sweet of you to try, but it‘s the thought that counts more than the gift. We’re buddies, after all, gifts shouldn‘t matter.”

“Huh? Oh no, it’s not that…” she takes a deep breath and turns to face you, despite the lack of eye contact, “I just wanna ask… would you-? No, wait a minute. Do you like-? No, hold on.”

Her less-than-usual behaviour raises your eyebrow. Even more so when she places one of her hooves on top of yours in a caring manner. She then takes another deep breath and tries again.

“Uh… w- would you like to go on a d-”

WHAM!

The door to the kitchen bashes into the wall, nearly getting knocked off it’s hinges, as a wingless, hornless stallion marches into the room. He carries the air of somepony who would wipe his horseshoes on an orphan if he ever stepped in manure. Which is probably something Sharpquill Mare would do.

“Alright!” He announced to everypony there, as if summoning them for a royal visit, “Who’s the moron who spilled coffee on my desk during my break!?”

He stares down his snout at each pony, one at a time. Ditzy nervously lowers herself, taking another sip from her juice box to appear inconspicuous.

“Come on,” He continues, “I spent all morning on those papers, and now they’re ruined! Are you all telling me you didn’t see who did it? None of you?”

He pauses, hovering over your table for a moment, before cockily leaning on it, staring your friend up and down. Ditzy shies away from his privacy-invading stare.

“Or maybe you all know, and don’t want to upset the poor doofus…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” you cut him off, “You can’t just assume Ditzy’s the cause of every little thing that happens. Did you see her drop any coffee?” Of course, you knew she did it - she told you not five minutes ago.

“Oh please, horn-head,” Sharpquill countered, prodding at your horn with his hoof, “I thought you unicorns were the smart ones! It’s obviously Ditzy who did it, who else would drop a cup of coffee - from a height - and have it shatter all over my desk? Maybe this is her form of payback for my ‘I‘ll give you a lift’ joke. Straight past her own workplace! Honestly, nopony else is that stupid and incompetent.”

From the corner of your eye, you notice Ditzy shifting uncomfortably at the words ‘stupid and incompetent’. The words that seemed to haunt her every other day. A small part of you sinks watching her contain her inner grief.

“I did that.” You blurt out. Almost every pony in the room falls silent.

“Pardon?” He eyeballs you cagily.

“I dropped the coffee on your desk. I, uh, was holding it with my magic and got distracted. Don‘t just waltz in here all high and mighty, hurting the poor girl‘s feelings when you didn‘t even see it happen. It was me.”

For a split second, Sharpquill becomes dumbstruck. His eyes flick from you to Ditzy, then back to you. Then he grunts under his breath, and regains his composure.

“You- you made that up.” he states flatly. “You’re obviously trying to take the fall for your… moronic girlfriend here.” he gestures at the blonde pegasus, who at this point is almost fighting back tears.

“Excuse me?” Hopefully he didn’t notice you gritting your teeth as you said that.

“Oh, don’t be coy, it’s visible from space. You clearly have a thing for little-Miss wall-eye, she’s the only pony you hang around with here.”

You open your mouth to talk back, but stumble over your words from the sudden allegation. “No I d- uh, wha…” you exchange a panicked glance with Ditzy, before giving up on any explanation and stuttering; “W- we’re friends.”

Sharpquill’s arrogant smirk says it all; it‘s almost like he could see inside your head.

“If that’s what you insist, so be it.” he rambles nonchalantly, “I’m just saying you’d make a cute couple; an apparently smart, mail-sorting unicorn such as yourself and, well…” he chuckles, as if he’s about to say some sort of joke, “Derpy Hooves.”

“Are you done yet? I have lunch to eat.” You return to your half-eaten sandwich, growing steadily impatient with his pompous insults.

“I’m just stating what I think, that’s all,” he coos, slithering away from the table. Then, with a murmur just loud enough, “I’ll leave you to get romantic with your retard now-”

Several things happen at once; the other ponies in the room gasp, while others stifle a cry of shock. Ditzy’s voice does something between a yelp and a whine as she buries her face into her forelegs, shaking uncontrollably. And in the space of a single second, you slam your lunch onto the table, leap up from your seat and find yourself standing eye-to-eye with Sharpquill.

“Call her that again, ya arrogant jackass!” you bark, giving him a hard shove, “I dare you!” The corner of your eyes spy a few mail-mares covering their mouths in shock at your outburst, but you don’t care. You can feel your blood boiling, pumping through your veins, especially the vein pulsing on your forehead, near your horn. Snorting, Sharpquill steadies himself after the shove.

“Ah, I knew it,” he declares to the stunned room, “I knew he had a thing for the wall-eye! All it takes is a little kick where it hurts and he shows his true colours! Ever heard of ‘no romance within the workplace’, horn-head? You could get fired for this…”

“Ditzy and I aren‘t together.” you snarl. If your eyes could shoot daggers, Sharpquill would have no head by now. “And if we were, it would be none of your business. Apologise to her. Now.” Your hoof absent-mindedly digs at the floor, ready for a fight. Hatred seethes in your stomach, your senses on edge.

“Not together, you say? I bet you’d like to be through.” Sharpquill’s words ring in your head as you glimpse back at your weeping friend. At this point, Ditzy’s head is buried into the lunch table, her front hooves covering her ears. She’s shaking from the insults, the hopeless situation, her wings covering her like a safety blanket from the cruel world.

Sharpquill leans closer, almost within your foreleg’s reach, “I bet there’s nothing more you want in than to play a quick game of ‘stuff the spaz’-”

THUMP!

Sharpquill is sent careening backwards as your right front hoof buries itself in his snout at a ridiculous speed. You hear one or two screams from the other mail-ponies as he collides with the table behind him.

A second or two later, he scrambles to his feet and lunges toward you at full gallop; the force of him crashing into you knocking the air out of your lungs. Before you can even think, your vision flashes white - a stinging wave of pain sweeps over the back of your head as it ricochets off the hard wooden floor. Another flash of pain blinds the left half of your face before you can recover from the first one. That would be Sharpquill’s hoof striking your eye. You raise your forelegs defensively in front of your face, taking in the brunt of two more strikes. You lash out blindly with your hind legs, hoping to buck him off, hoping to end his offence. It connects with a solid punt to his stomach, causing your attacker to back off, complete with a pained stagger.

You achingly pull yourself up from the floor, dizzy from the knocks to the head. Through your good eye, you can make out Sharpquill’s heavy panting as he leans against the nearest table; clearly your kick was to good effect. You paw at the ground with your hoof again, every hint of your body language dripping with hate, your horn lowered menacingly towards the one who would dare insult your best friend…

“What in the name of the Sun do ya think yer doin‘?!”

The gruff roar from the kitchen entrance causes you to crane your neck around. Your feel your stomach twist into knots when you recognise the black trucker cap, haggard muzzle and the crate marking on his flank. His name is Burl. Or, as you’re made to address him, ‘Boss’ or ‘Chief‘.

Sharpquill also notices, “Oh, thank goodness you’ve arrived, sir!” he ham-acts, “Your letter-sorting employee attacked me! I tried to defend myself, of course, but he was ruthless in his assault-”

“Shaddup, Mare, save it for my office.” Burl interjects, gesturing for him to leave the room. Sharpquill winced at the mention of his last name, not just for the gender implications, but for the cheek of being addressed in such a way. Pitifully clutching where you kicked him, he hobbles slowly across the room.

“And hurry up about it, or else I’ll dock yer pay.”

Suddenly, Sharpquill’s injuries ‘magically’ dissipate at the thought of him losing money. As he trots off towards Burl’s office, you hear him call back; “and just you wait ‘til I tell you who he’s been courting in work hours..!”

“I said zip it!” Burl turns back to you, “And you too, letter-sorter, let’s go.”

Before you leave, you turn to face a traumatized Ditzy. Everything she saw unfold, she believes is her fault. Her stupidity. Her incompetence.

Seeing her in such a heartbreaking state makes you want to scream. But that would probably only serve to scare her even more.

Before Burl grabs you by the tail and drags you out, you can only manage to utter two words;

“I’m sorry.”