Page 48 of The Slug Crystal

In the center of the table sits Alex's terrarium.

Our cursed centerpiece. The physical manifestation of my magical mistake.

The blue snail glides around peacefully, his antennae extended in what I've come to interpret as contentment, completely unaware that he's the subject of our uncomfortable breakfast conversation.

Last night's confession, my admission of feelings for all four men and their surprisingly accepting response, hangs between us, not quite addressed but impossible to ignore.

We dance around it through mundane morning rituals.

Marco prepares his coffee with scientific precision, Jake arranges fruit on a platter with care, Ben flips through his phone while stealing glances at me over the screen, and Luca hums an Italian tune as he pulls pastries out of the oven with a surprising amount of domestic energy .

It's almost normal. Almost.

I cram a piece of croissant into my mouth, chewing aggressively as I watch Alex bump gently against the cucumber slice Jake placed in his terrarium earlier.

"I know we're pretending this isn't weird, but..." I blurt out, dusting crumbs from my fingers, "what do we do with him?"

My question lands like a stone in still water, rippling out to where the four men pause in their morning routines.

Marco's coffee cup hovers halfway to his lips.

Ben's thumb freezes mid-scroll. Jake sets down the apple he's holding.

Luca turns from the counter, a croissant, with what looks like strawberry marmalade inside, forgotten in his hands.

"With Alex," I clarify, gesturing toward the terrarium. "Long-term, I mean. We can't just... keep him as a pet forever." I swallow hard, voicing the question that's been gnawing at me since Venice. "What if we never find Sarah? What if he's just... stuck?"

The four men exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them that I can't fully decipher. Jake is the first to break the silence, setting down his coffee cup with decisive gentleness.

"We could call his job anonymously," he suggests, his steady voice a counterpoint to my rising panic. "Tell them he's taking a sabbatical. Or was abducted by French wildlife smugglers." His mouth quirks up at the corner, but his eyes remain serious. "Buy him some time, at least."

"French wildlife smugglers?" Ben repeats, eyebrows shooting up.

"That's the best you can do? Amateur." He sets his phone down, leaning forward with a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"I say we release him in the Vatican and see if he gets canonized eventually.

Saint Alex of the Blue Shell, patron saint of bad breakups and cosmic irony. "

I can't help the laugh that escapes me, though it comes out more strained than usual. The thought of leaving Alex in the Vatican feels both ridiculous and somehow tempting, a way to pass my burden off to a higher power.

Luca shrugs with the casual elegance that seems infused in his every movement, finally remembering to set down the pastry. "Can't we just leave him at a snail sanctuary?" He gestures vaguely with one hand. "There must be such places. Conservation centers or something."

"A snail sanctuary," I repeat flatly. "For a blue snail that used to be human."

"They wouldn't know that part," Luca points out, pouring himself more espresso. "They'd just think he's an exotic species. He'd be protected, cared for. Possibly studied, but..." He trails off at my expression.

Marco adjusts his glasses, the morning light catching the lenses briefly before revealing his thoughtful gaze. He sets his tablet aside, assuming what I've come to think of as his professor posture. His spine is straight, and his hands are clasped before him on the table.

"If he is still mentally human in there," he says with complete seriousness, "we have to consider his quality of life.

" His eyes move to the terrarium, studying Alex's methodical progress across the glass floor.

"Should we... try to teach him Morse code?

A simple system of communication. We could use one movement for yes, two for no.

It would at least give us some indication of his cognitive state. "

The suggestion hangs in the air, oddly compelling in its earnestness, but also still completely delusional.

I watch Alex exploring his lettuce, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

Is there still a human mind trapped behind those eyestalks?

Does he understand what's happening around him?

Does he recognize us, remember us, judge us?

Luca sighs dramatically. "Look at him," he says, gesturing toward the terrarium with his espresso cup. "Moving at the pace of continental drift. Do you think he knows he's missing the trip of a lifetime?" His casual comment punctures our serious mood, and suddenly the floodgates open.

"Maybe he prefers this life," Ben suggests, leaning back in his chair. "No job, no bills, no expectations beyond munching lettuce and making slime trails. That's retirement goals right there."

Jake snorts, nearly choking on his coffee. "He does have the best housing situation out of all of us. Glass walls with a view, daily maid service, meals prepared and delivered."

"Room service with a side of existential crisis," Marco adds, surprising me with his venture into humor. His usually serious face cracks into a smile as he adjusts his glasses. "Though I wonder about the psychological impact of living in a fishbowl, so to speak. The constant observation."

Ben perks up, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "What if he writes 'Help me' in slime one morning? Imagine waking up to that."

I glance nervously at the terrarium, half-expecting to see glistening letters forming on the glass. Alex continues his methodical exploration of a cucumber slice, antennae swiveling with what I've come to interpret as gastropod enthusiasm.

"Don't give him ideas," Luca warns, winking at me. "Next thing you know, he'll be spelling out 'I know what you did last summer' across the glass."

The image is so ridiculous that I find myself laughing despite my unease. "He'd run out of slime before getting through the first three words."

"He could abbreviate," Marco suggests with scholarly precision. "IKWYDLS. Much more efficient for gastropod communication."

Jake reaches over to tap gently on the terrarium glass. "Are you taking notes in there, buddy? Learning all our secrets?"

"What if he's been watching everything and is judging our life choices?" Marco muses, studying Alex through narrowed eyes. "Imagine the doctoral thesis he could write on human mating behaviors in stressful situations."

My laughter catches in my throat, suddenly less amused as I recall exactly what Alex might have witnessed over the past few weeks. The kiss with Luca in the pool. Stargazing with Marco. The midnight kitchen encounter with Ben….

As if reading my thoughts, Ben's gaze slides to me over his espresso cup, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. "Especially yours, Emma," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage whisper.

Coffee burns my throat as I inhale sharply, coughing and sputtering while heat races up my neck to flood my cheeks.

Marco's eyebrows rise above his glasses, but he says nothing, just takes another measured sip of his coffee.

"Hey, no judgment here," Ben says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just pointing out that if Alex still has human consciousness, he's getting quite the education on adult relationships."

Jake clears his throat. "Maybe we should change the subject."

"Why?" Luca asks with a grin. "This is the most interesting breakfast conversation we've had yet. Besides, we all acknowledged the situation last night. No secrets anymore, right?"

I force a laugh. "Right. No secrets." My fingers find a fresh pastry, tearing into it without any real appetite. "Totally normal breakfast conversation."

"If it helps," Marco offers with academic detachment that doesn't quite mask his discomfort, "gastropods have very limited visual acuity. He likely perceives only general shapes and movement, not... details."

"Great," I mutter. "So he just sees the outline of me making potentially terrible decisions. Much better."

Ben chuckles. "Don't be so hard on yourself. We're all making questionable choices here. Alex is probably taking notes for his memoirs: 'Fifty Shades of Blue: A Snail's Perspective.'"

Luca nearly spits out his coffee.

"Chapter One: 'The Slow and the Curious,'" Jake adds unexpectedly, making everyone turn to him in surprise before erupting into laughter.

I try to join in, to show I'm a good sport, that I can take a joke even when it's at my expense. My smile feels plastic, stretched too thin across my face. The pastry in my hands crumbles as my fingers tighten involuntarily, flaky shards raining down onto my plate and lap.

"Chapter Two: 'Shell-Shocked: When Your Ex Takes Her Friends on an Italian Vacation,'" Ben continues, clearly warming to the theme.

"Chapter Three: 'The Real Reason I'm Blue,'" Luca chimes in.

Each joke lands like a tiny barb, piercing the fragile bubble of composure I've managed to maintain.

I keep smiling, keep nodding, keep pretending this is all hilarious while something inside me begins to crack.

My vision blurs slightly, and I blink rapidly, determined not to cry over stupid snail jokes at the breakfast table.

"What about 'Escargot My Way: How I Ruined My Ex's Life While Touring Europe'?" Ben suggests, laughing.

The pastry disintegrates completely in my grip. A drop of moisture lands on the back of my hand. It’s not coffee, but a tear I didn't realize had escaped. I stare at it, betrayed by my own emotions.

"Or 'Shell Game: Five Humans, One Snail, No Winners,'" Jake offers, his voice gentler now, though he hasn't noticed my shift in mood.