The girl with the braids says hi with more cheerfulness than Mai thought possible. She gives one-word answers to all of that Ty Lee's questions and walks off as soon as the bell rings. Mai dutifully maintains this quiet, cold attitude, even though Ty Lee tries to break through it daily. Then her "friend" is standing before the class, being reprimanded for cartwheeling right into another student. The girl doesn't bother suppressing her tears as her teacher whips the fire out. But the next day, Mai finds her continuing her acrobatics behind the academy, where Ty Lee can hurt no one and be punished for nothing. Mai starts the conversation for once, making a remark about little miss innocent having the guts to defy her superiors, and Ty Lee smiles through her burns.

.

Princess Azula's expression turns to a sneer when she happens upon such classy, high-ranking girls writing their essays on Fire Lord Sozin's reign in a dreary, unkempt park. Ty Lee's smile doesn't fade as she explains how their suffocating homes just ruin their auras and make it too hard for them to concentrate, so the park is really the best option. Azula bores her golden eyes into them as she asks why they don't just do it at her house, and only Mai's inbred manners stop her from making a comment on how they really don't want to be the test subjects for her blue fire—not again, anyway. When the princess leaves, Mai asks her friend why she puts up with her, and Ty Lee explains that petting even a boarcupine can turn it into a koala-sheep. Mai thinks but doesn't say that she needs to stop reading fairytales.

.

That gurgling, drooling mess enters Mai's world in the middle of the night, the time when she once had a nightmare, went crying to her mother, and was lectured on how such interruptions were rude and unnecessary. Mai wonders how her brother's cries are any more necessary. Fellow politicians and their children are over to meet Tom-Tom the next morning, and though she expects Ty Lee to be the first person to coo over how cute he is, her friend spends the whole time trying to catch her eye. Mai doesn't let her, not until Agni has left the sky and it's too dark for anyone else to see. Only then does she give in and break down in her best friend's welcoming arms.

.

To be fair, Ty Lee does ask for company before leaving that carefully written note on her parents' nightstand. And, looking into those big brown eyes, knowing how long it may be before she sees them again, Mai wants to say yes. She wants freedom, and that hyper, jumpy girl is the only one she'd consider taking it with. But Mai knows it'd never work. The circus is Ty Lee's dream, not hers. Her friend may want Mai to fit into her dream, but simply wanting it isn't enough. So when dawn breaks and the goodbye letter is being passed around, Mai is among them, keeping her face as unmoved as possible, because after all, pain is a useless emotion.

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With Azula effortlessly in the lead and Mai seemingly thoughtless by her side (but of course, Ty Lee knows she's not), the braided girl can almost pretend they're little girls again, sharing fire flakes outside the academy. But even she knows they're not. Azula's little games of lightning are aimed at the heart, and they're battling not only the Avatar, but also their childhood friend. But she never cries about it, because she knows that someone else—not just any someone, but her best friend—is suffering much more than her. Ty Lee never understood Mai's feelings for the banished prince, and she never really wanted to, but that doesn't stop her from checking Mai's face for signs of pain every time they run into him. She never finds any, and somehow, she wishes she did; whatever jealousy she may have felt, she would've taken that over seeing Mai not allow herself to feel.

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Long ago, Mai's mother said the word "vacation" like it was some great reward for those who served their Fire Lord best. But as Mai sits by her boyfriend in the dying firelight, she decides vacation is nothing more than torture. If it wasn't for Ember Island's supposedly magical effect, she'd be happy. She'd still like the way Zuko is open and emotional and everything she can't be, and believe that that's enough of a basis for a relationship. Phrases like you're just a big blah and you don't believe in anything wouldn't be echoing in Mai's head, reminding her that understanding has to go both ways. And she certainly wouldn't be stealing glances at her thoughtful-looking best friend, wondering who has the real love story here.

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All she can see is brown—a metallic, peeling brown that makes her long for the pink she once turned her nose up at. But the only one who'd dare wear it is blocked from sight, par with the boarcupine's orders. And even if Mai could see her best friend, she knows the pink would be gone; why would the guards let her keep something signifying life and joy? But Mai forces her face to remain passive as another wave of cold, punishing air makes its way into her cell. I can't believe you went down with me, she whispers as the machine covers her voice. I can't believe you thought I had a choice, Ty Lee whispers back.

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It doesn't end in grand gestures or games of pride, but Mai almost wishes it would. Because just watching Ty Lee walk away in that green uniform, not even knowing what to think or feel, kills her. Her best friend has this cheerfulness for the first time in forever, and Mai can't bring herself to feel it too. She hasn't been allowed to. Her mother taught her to swallow her emotions at age five, and just because the war's over doesn't mean she knows how to bring them back up. Ty Lee knows what she wants and where she belongs, and Mai knows nothing, except that she can't continue following people. I understand, Ty Lee assures her with a teary smile. Mai just hopes that by the time she too understands, she'll still have a place in Ty Lee's life.