The scene unfolding in Alyx's living room hours later had the awkward solemnity of a school play.
Lily's banner, "WE LOVE YOU, ALYX" with hearts drawn around it, hung on the wall, hastily put up before Alyx returned with the coffee she had offered her unexpected guests.
Alyx was now seated on the only stool in the room, having been convinced to receive them under the false pretext of an "emergency group meeting to discuss... something." Her expression was full of suspicion, and her presence was wrapped in the scent of cigarettes, coffee, and paint.
"What is this?" asked Alyx, her gaze sweeping from the banner to the serious faces of her friends. Her posture was upright, but Robin noticed how her fingers clung to the edges of her coffee cup, trying to simulate a normality that couldn't hide the fine tremors that were clearly visible if you knew where to look.
Ted cleared his throat, holding his card with sweaty hands. "Alyx, we've... well, we've called this meeting today because we're all worried."
"Worried," Alyx repeated in a murmur.
"Yes," Marshall continued, stepping forward with his crumpled card in hand. "Since you moved out, you haven't been yourself. And I don't mean we miss you doing the dishes or cleaning the apartment with military precision. It's what we saw at brunch and what I've seen of you since. Plus, Robin saw you at the gym. You're training as if you're preparing for a war, you sleep little, you smoke like a trucker, and..." his voice dropped to a softer whisper, "...you cry in secret."
Alyx blinked. A brief flash of vulnerability crossed her face before her mask of serenity reasserted itself, albeit with a few cracks. "I have my own apartment, my own habits. That's what I'm supposed to do, right? Move on."
"But not toward an abyss! And you're heading straight downhill!" Robin couldn't hold back any longer, holding her card as she began. "Do you know how many times I've seen you smoke on the balcony in a single afternoon? Five, Alyx... Five. And then when you drink coffee—I'm not even sure how much you consume, but it must be too much because your hands are constantly moving like leaves in a gale, and that's not stress. That's... your nervous system begging for a break."
Lily, who had remained in the background, stepped forward. Her card was a drawing—a simple, affectionate sketch of the three of them: her, Marshall, and Alyx, sitting together on the old sofa. "We miss you," she began, her voice breaking. "And we're afraid. We know you're not well. This distance isn't healthy, and you're clearly hurting yourself as if you believe you deserve it."
Alyx looked at the drawing and held her breath for a second. Then, her gaze hardened. "So, this is an intervention?" she asked, followed by a dry, humorless laugh from her lips. "Seriously? The banner, the cards, the circle of concern. Who's next? Is Barney going to pull out a pie chart with percentages and variables?"
"Actually, I have a spreadsheet!" said Barney, unable to contain himself as he pulled out his envelope. "Alyx, your trading profits from the last quarter defy all probabilistic logic. Unless you have a crystal ball or are committing federal-level financial crimes—which, between us, would be impressively cool—this is a sign of compulsive, high-risk behavior! It's another clear symptom of concern!"
The silence that followed was palpable. Barney's observation, born of paranoia and ego, had unknowingly touched the most exposed nerve: the central mystery of Alyx.
Everyone saw the color drain from Alyx's face—not the paleness of towering anger, but the marble-white of genuine panic, the same kind Marshall had identified during his last visit.
"You have no... no idea what you're talking about," Alyx managed to say, though her voice lacked all its earlier strength and held a clear stutter.
"Barney, this isn't helping," Ted hissed.
"Of course it helps! It's an angle no one had considered," Barney protested.
It was then that Alyx stood up. The stool screeched against the wooden floor. The tremor in her hands was now undeniable, visible to everyone.
"You know what? You're right. I'm a mess. I know I drink too much coffee, smoke like a chimney, beat myself up in a gym, and cry over a love that left months ago." Her gaze, laden with icy fury, swept over each of them. "But all of that—all this beautiful, pathetic spectacle—is mine. This is my mess, my grief, my torturous, self-destructive path forward. And you know what this intervention has accomplished? It's only reminded me why I left in the first place."
"Alyx, no..." Marshall began, trying to stop her from shutting down.
"No!" Alyx's voice cut through the air like a whip. "I left because I couldn't breathe. Because every corner of that old apartment screamed a memory of something that had died. Because taking care of everyone, being the rock, the sensible one, the one who cleans up the mess after someone else's breakup, was emptying me from the inside until all that was left was this... this shell that needs coffee and punches to feel anything. And your solution is to come here, raise a banner, and tell me to stop? Like it's a stupid hat?"
She walked up to the banner, stared at it with contempt for an infinite moment, and then, with a sudden, sharp motion, she tore it from the wall. The sound of ripping paper was brutally loud.
"Get out," she said, her voice now a tense, dangerous thread. "All of you. Take your well-intentioned concern, your cards, and your stupid spy theories with you. Take them!" No one moved; shock had paralyzed them.
"GET OUT!" she screamed, and this time it was a heart-wrenching cry, loaded with so much pain and rage that Lily took a step back.
Barney was the first to react, with an unexpectedly subdued gesture. He nodded. "Alright. The Protocol has been... rejected. Tactical retreat, team."
One by one, ashamed and devastated, they filed out, with Marshall last, his unopened card still in his hand. "Alyx, I'm sorry..." he murmured.
She didn't look at him.
When the door closed, the sound of the latch clicking echoed like a gunshot. Alyx slid down against the wall until she was sitting on the floor. The tremor was now uncontrollable, shaking her entire body, and tears joined the fray—tears of rage, humiliation, and indescribable fear, rolling down her cheeks.
Barney was right, in his idiotic, clumsy way. He had touched the truth. Her knowledge of the future—that curse that gave her an advantage and stole her peace—was at the center of everything. It was the engine of her compulsive productivity, the reason she saw every moment with Marshall and Lily as an emptying hourglass, the source of the panic she felt at the thought of being discovered.
She picked up Barney's card from the floor, the one about her impossible profits, and held it against herself with trembling hands.
They were getting closer, each in their own way. Robin saw the symptoms, Marshall the pain, Lily the guilt, and now Barney the anomalous pattern.
Soon, someone would connect the dots.
The intervention had failed spectacularly, but in its failure, they had accomplished something: they had shown Alyx she could no longer hide. The group wouldn't give up, and her secret—which explained the bruises, the insomnia, the financial success, and the terror in her eyes—was no longer hers alone. It floated in the apartment's air, in the unasked questions, and in Barney's spreadsheet.
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