Chapter Text
Lilly sat at the dinner table surrounded by Patty and her parents, the soft clink of silverware and the quiet hum of conversation filling the space in a way that should have felt comforting but instead made her chest tighten.
The rhythm of it all—the easy back-and-forth between Patty’s parents, the occasional scrape of a chair, the low murmur of voices overlapping without effort—felt like something she was intruding on rather than participating in. It was the kind of normal she had seen from a distance before, something that looked simple and natural when you weren’t inside it, but now that she was sitting here, expected to exist within it, it felt structured in ways she didn’t understand.
Her plate sat untouched in front of her, steam still rising faintly from the food, curling into the air before disappearing. The smell was warm and savory, something rich and familiar, the kind of meal that suggested routine, care, and stability. Under any other circumstances, she might have found comfort in it. Now, though, the scent only seemed to thicken the air around her, making each breath feel slightly heavier than the last. It settled in her lungs without easing anything, without grounding her, as if her body refused to recognize it as something safe.
Her palms grew damp where they rested against her lap, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her clothes as if she needed something solid to hold onto. She kept her eyes fixed on her plate, focusing on the smallest details—the shape of the food, the way the light reflected faintly off the fork, the thin line of steam still rising—anything to keep herself from looking up for too long.
Looking up meant risking eye contact, and eye contact meant being seen. Being seen meant questions, attention, and expectation.
Things she didn’t know how to handle.
Her appetite was completely gone. It wasn’t that the food looked unappealing—it looked good, carefully prepared, the kind of meal that made sense in a house like this—but the only thing Lilly could feel was fear, sitting heavy and unmoving in her stomach. It pressed outward against her ribs, dull and constant, making her feel slightly nauseous in a way that had nothing to do with the food itself. Her mind raced faster than she could keep up with, thoughts overlapping and tangling until none of them fully formed.
What if she said something wrong?
What if she didn’t say anything at all?
What if they were already noticing how quiet she was, how stiff she looked sitting there like she didn’t belong?
The edges of her vision began to blur slightly, the room softening around her as if someone had lowered the focus on everything beyond the immediate space in front of her. The walls seemed a little farther away, the voices a little more distant, like she was slipping just slightly out of sync with the moment. She blinked a few times, trying to clear it, but the sensation lingered in a way that made her feel unsteady.
She hadn’t meant to stay this long.
None of this had been part of her plan.
She had only intended to come over, work on the project, and leave as quickly and quietly as possible. That was all. Something contained. Something predictable. Something she could control.
This—sitting at a dinner table, surrounded by people she didn’t know, expected to exist naturally in a space that felt so foreign—this had never crossed her mind.
Not once.
She had imagined so many versions of how today might go, replaying them over and over again the night before, adjusting small details, preparing responses, trying to anticipate every possible outcome so she wouldn’t be caught off guard. She had thought about where she would sit, what she would say if Patty asked her something, how she would respond if the conversation shifted in a direction she wasn’t prepared for.
But this version of events hadn’t been accounted for.
There had been no plan for this, no script to follow, no safe structure to lean on.
And now she felt lost.
Completely directionless, like she had been dropped into something she didn’t understand without any way to prepare, expected to move through it without hesitation.
She needed to look normal.
The thought pushed its way forward with sudden urgency, sharp and insistent. If she kept staring at her plate like this, if she stayed too still, too quiet, they would notice. They would start to question it. They might misinterpret it as rudeness, or worse, concern.
And concern led to attention.
Slowly, she lifted her hand and picked up her fork, the metal cool and slightly heavier than it should have felt in her grip. The movement took more effort than it should have, her fingers tightening just enough that she had to consciously relax them. She forced herself to move the fork toward the food, her motions careful and deliberate, as though she were following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand. Her hand trembled faintly, just enough that she had to focus on keeping it steady.
She cut a small piece.
Lifted it.
Paused.
Then, forcing herself not to hesitate any longer, she brought it to her mouth.
The taste registered faintly, distant and muted, like her senses weren’t fully connected to the moment. She chewed slowly, mechanically, focusing more on the act itself than the food. Swallowing felt harder than it should have, as her throat had tightened just enough to make even that small action difficult.
She needed balance.
That was the only way through this.
She had to be present enough that Patty’s parents wouldn’t think she was being rude, but still quiet enough that they wouldn’t focus on her too much. Small enough to be overlooked, but not so small that it raised concern. The line between those two things felt impossibly thin, like trying to stand still on something unstable, constantly shifting beneath her feet.
She had spent so much time preparing for situations like this, thinking through them carefully so she wouldn’t feel this way, so she wouldn’t freeze up and fall apart the moment something unexpected happened. She had promised herself she wouldn’t let that happen again.
And yet here she was.
Her thoughts tightened, spiraling faster, her chest rising and falling a little too quickly as she tried to keep her breathing steady. A faint sheen of sweat had begun to form along her forehead, and she resisted the urge to wipe it away, worried that even that small movement might draw attention.
Across the table, Patty’s mother glanced over.
The shift in attention was subtle, almost unnoticeable to anyone else, but Lilly felt it immediately. Her body tensed without her permission, her grip tightening slightly around the fork as she kept her gaze lowered, her focus snapping sharply into place.
Patty’s mother’s expression softened as she took in the untouched plate, the stiffness in Lilly’s posture, the way she seemed almost frozen in place despite the small effort she had made to appear otherwise.
“Are you all right, Lilly?” she asked gently. “You haven’t even touched your plate.”
The sound of her name cut cleanly through the noise in her head.
Lilly looked up too quickly, her eyes meeting Patty’s mother’s before darting almost immediately toward Patty, as if searching for something steady to hold onto. The shift made everything feel disjointed, like the moment had tilted slightly off balance.
For a second, it felt like everything was happening both too slowly and too fast at the same time.
Her stomach twisted sharply, a wave of nausea rising without warning as the attention settled fully on her. The weight of it pressed against her chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think.
She needed to respond.
She knew that.
She knew the silence would only make things worse.
But the words wouldn’t come.
They caught somewhere in her throat, stuck behind the tightness in her chest, refusing to form no matter how hard she tried to force them out. She could feel the expectation stretching, the pause growing just slightly too long.
So instead, she smiled.
It was small and quick, a practiced expression she had used countless times before, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She nodded slightly, as if the motion itself could replace the answer she couldn’t give.
“I’m fine,” she managed softly, though the words felt thin, almost hollow as they left her mouth.
Patty’s mother didn’t look entirely convinced.
There was a brief pause as she studied Lilly’s face, her concern lingering just beneath the surface, subtle but present. It felt like she was trying to decide whether to push further, whether to ask another question.
The possibility alone made Lilly’s chest tighten again, her thoughts scrambling to prepare for something she wasn’t sure she could handle.
But no follow-up came.
After a second, Patty’s mother simply nodded and turned her attention back to her own plate, the conversation shifting back into its earlier rhythm as if the moment had passed without consequence.
Lilly’s shoulders eased slightly, though the tension didn’t fully leave her body.
She looked back down at her plate, her grip on the fork loosening just enough that it no longer felt like she was holding onto it for stability. The brief interaction had drained what little composure she had been holding onto, leaving her feeling more fragile than before.
Across from her, Patty watched the entire exchange.
Her expression remained mostly neutral, but there was a faint tightness in her jaw, a subtle irritation that hadn’t been there earlier. Watching Lilly struggle through something so simple—answering a basic question, eating a meal—was starting to grate on her in a way she didn’t entirely understand.
It wasn’t just the silence.
It was the way Lilly seemed to shrink into herself, the way every small interaction turned into something tense and drawn out. It made everything feel heavier than it needed to be.
Patty picked up her own fork and took another bite of food, her movements controlled and effortless, as if to emphasize the contrast. She didn’t look at Lilly directly, but her awareness of her never really left.
Lilly could feel it anyway.
That awareness sat just at the edge of her senses, subtle but constant, making it impossible to fully relax even as the conversation around the table shifted away from her.
She had tried to prepare for this.
She had thought through everything—every possible conversation, every possible reaction—so she wouldn’t end up like this.
So she wouldn’t look weak.
So she wouldn’t look pathetic.
So she could pass as normal.
But sitting there now, surrounded by people who seemed so comfortable, so at ease in a world she didn’t quite understand, Lilly could feel that careful preparation unraveling piece by piece.
And no matter how tightly she tried to hold onto it, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep pretending.
