Chapter Text
The grass is damp but warm under the picnic blanket. The air hums with the lazy sounds of a Saturday: dogs barking in the distance, people laughing, a tinny speaker somewhere playing a familiar Taylor Swift song that Felix can't remember the name of.
Naomi’s stretched out on her stomach, sunglasses perched on her head, doodling in a sketchbook between bites of strawberries. Elle’s braiding Tara’s hair while Darcy sits nearby, balancing a bottle of cider precariously on their knee like they're honing a real skill.
Felix sits a little apart, hands wrapped around a can of lemonade, watching sunlight catch on Elle’s gold hoops.
“God, this weather makes me want to drop out and just become a plant,” Naomi sighs, rolling onto her back.
Elle hums.
“You would have to be a houseplant though. You’d definitely need direct sunlight and constant praise.”
“You’d last a week,” Darcy says. “You're too high maintenance. You’d wilt the moment someone forgot to mist you twice a day.”
Naomi flicks a bit of grass at them.
“I don’t see the problem,” Naomi says, then grins at Felix. “Felix would survive the longest. You’d just curl up in the shade and photosynthesize quietly.”
Felix snorts.
“Accurate. Low maintenance, easily forgotten.”
“Not forgotten,” Tara says gently, twisting her braid into a knot. “Just…chill.”
Felix smiles but looks away. Chill. Sure. Just…background.
They’re about to change the subject when Tao shows up, trudging across the grass with his usual dramatic air — backpack slung low, expression pure suffering.
Elle lights up immediately.
“Hey, babe.” She pats the blanket, and he drops down beside her, sighing.
“What’s wrong this time?” Naomi asks. “Did someone insult Wes Anderson again?”
Tao gives her a dead look.
“Worse. I’ve been assigned my final project.”
“That’s good,” Darcy says, “isn’t it?”
“It’s a musical,” Tao says flatly.
The group bursts into laughter.
“No,” he insists. “I’m serious. We have to direct a musical short film. Twenty-five to forty minutes. My screenwriting partner’s already submitted the script.”
Elle tries not to laugh but fails.
“That’s not so bad!”
“I don’t do musicals,” Tao groans, spitting out the word ‘musical’ like it's left a bad taste in his mouth. “Everyone in them is just—singing about feelings instead of having them.”
Darcy raises an eyebrow.
“Sounds like you could use that strategy. It would be much more fun for us.”
“Ha. Ha.” He picks up a grape and throws it at them.
Naomi’s still giggling.
“What’s it about?”
“Some sort of queer coming-of-age thing,” he says, sounding pained. “Lots of heart. Lots of dancing. The story is actually quite good, thankfully.”
Tara perks up.
“Dancing? I’m in. I’ll choreograph!”
Tao groans louder.
“No, you won’t, because I’m not doing it.”
“Yes, you are,” Elle says, poking his side. “And you’ll love it. Admit it’s kind of cute.”
He narrows his eyes.
“If it’s so cute, you can all help me. Be in it or something.”
There’s a chorus of reactions: Naomi’s excited “Obviously,” Tara’s “I’ll make it beautiful,” Darcy’s smirked “Only if I can play the villain.”
Felix feels their stomach twist. Everyone’s laughing and already casting themselves in imaginary roles. Felix’s hands tighten around the lemonade can.
Then Elle turns to them, smiling.
“You’ll help too, right, Felix?”
They hesitate, aware of everyone’s eyes for the first time that day.
“Um. Sure,” they manage. “Yeah. Sounds fun.”
It doesn’t. Not even a little. But Felix forces a smile anyway, because they hate being the one who says no — the quiet one who stays behind when everyone else is shining in the sun.
The flat is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint tapping of Naomi’s keyboard from the next room. The day’s warmth still lingers in the stale air of their shared flat, heavy and still. Felix lies on their back in bed, curls fanned out across the pillow, the faint glow from their phone lighting the ceiling.
They scroll idly, then let the screen dim out.
Their arms ache a little — the kind of dull, steady ache that comes from a long day of pushing over uneven grass. They shift, adjusting their position, tugging the blanket up with one hand.
Their eyes drift to the sketch pinned above their desk — Naomi’s quick, confident charcoal lines capturing Felix’s profile, soft and unbothered. They remember Naomi calling it “a portrait of serenity." Felix thinks maybe she mistook stillness for peace.
The thought of Tao’s project won’t stop circling their mind. A musical. Singing. Dancing. Big emotions. They did not do big emotions.
Felix huffs a quiet laugh into the dark.
“Right. Perfect for me.”
They picture everyone again — Tara spinning barefoot in the grass, Elle’s effortless glow, Naomi’s bright confidence. Darcy with that cocky little smirk that always makes everyone wonder what they're up to.
They all belong on camera.
Felix imagines themself there too: awkward, rigid, trying to keep up with the rhythm of something that wasn’t built with them in mind.
Their stomach knots.
They’ve gotten used to being adaptable — ramps and lifts and careful planning, quiet patience while someone apologizes for stairs they can’t magically change. But this feels like a different kind of inaccessibility. Emotional, not physical.
What would they even do in a musical? Sure, they can sing decently, though the idea of doing it publicly is off-putting. But, they don’t dance. They can’t just—get up and twirl under stage lights like Tara.
They rub a thumb over the soft edge of their blanket. Maybe they could help behind the scenes. Art direction, design, something safe. Something where no one would watch and think, 'What are they even doing here?'
The thought of saying that out loud, though — of seeing pity cross someone’s face, or worse, that forced reassurance — makes them cringe.
They stare up at the ceiling again, feeling that old, familiar tug of invisibility.
Everyone else seems to shine so effortlessly. Felix’s light always feels borrowed — reflected off someone louder, prettier, more magnetic.
They sigh softly, reach over, and turn off the lamp. The room falls into darkness, quiet and close.
But the question hums in their chest as they drift toward sleep:
What if there’s no place for me in this story?