I drop my eyes to the menu as the noise in my head swells, because that wink does things to my body that feel downright illegal.
The voices grow louder, piling over one another until it’s almost intolerable.
I’m staring down at the menu, but I don’t see a single word.
All I can see is the black void pulling me under.
I slip my hand under my jumper, find the blade there, and press the tip to my finger until it breaks skin.
The pain pulls me back.
I finally breathe again.
I keep doing it, finger by finger, to stay here—to keep myself from losing it in the middle of the dining hall.
It’s suffocating, this constant war between my body and my mind. I feel like I’m fighting myself all the time. On one side, emotions I can’t control. On the other, the guilt that follows them.
In short, I can’t control my own head, and that is terrifying.
I keep reading the menu, even though it takes much longer than it should for the words to make sense.
The menu remains a crime against humanity.
Everything is vegan, courtesy of Mr. Vass deciding that because my sister is vegan, everyone else ought to be too, so she won’t feel uncomfortable.
I don’t actually know his reasons. My sister avoids talking about him like the plague.
I order something with a name that tells me absolutely nothing about what’s going to end up on the plate.
Conversation flows around the table, buthisattention never leaves me.
He sits opposite me, and since the moment he walked in, his eyes have stayed fixed on my face.
His attention flicks to the hand under my jumper. His eyes narrow, thoughtful, but he says nothing.
When the food arrives, I glance down at my plate and nearly groan.
I haven’t slept, I’m exhausted, and I’m starving.
And I ordered pasta with white sauce—which means milk, butter, cream, somethingdairy.
I almost cry, I swear.
Maybe the exhaustion is finally getting to me, or maybe it’s hormones and my period creeping up, because I am not a crier.
And yet here I am, on the verge of it, which feels so wrong, and so unlike me.
Before I can touch it, the plate is whisked away.
A second later, another one is placed in front of me. I stare at it for a moment, confused, taking in the burger, the fries, the salad. Vegan, sure, but still.
I look up.
He’s already watching me. I suppose he never stopped.
“You hate dairy,” he says simply.
My heart trips, and I swallow hard. Something unfamiliar presses in my chest, something I don’t have a name for.
