They aren’t my friends.
They don’t care about me.
They don’t want to eat with me because they think I’m such a nice person.
I know this.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’m getting sentimental over lunch with colleagues I haven’t spoken more than a few sentences to. But I can’t seem to help it.
Growing up without affection left its mark. I drink it greedily from any hand that offers a gentle touch, from every mouth that talks kindly to me.
Ah, fuck it.
I can think about how to handle the fall when it comes.
Misha is back at the table and sets down our trays with a flourish that lifts the heavy thoughts swirling in my head.
“Voilà,vegetarian delicacy, as requested,” he declares, grinning as he slides the tray in front of me.
I inspect the meal—a chickpea and spinach curry—and muster a genuine smile. “Thanks for buying, Misha.”
Grey snorts from across the table, and I notice he has the same lunch as I have in front of him.
Is he a vegetarian too?
“You’re very welcome,” Misha retorts, winking at me before turning back to his meal.
We eat, and I’m surprised by the rich flavors of the curry, the warmth of the spices seeping through me. Grey starts ribbing Misha about forgetting to collect the laundry again, and for a moment, I let myself get lost in their banter. I almost feel like part of their group, even though I’m just listening, much like Oliver. But they seem fine to just let me be and eat.
Being part of such a close-knit friend group would be incredible.
As I continue eating, a strange sensation starts to build in the back of my throat. Initially, I dismiss it as a scratch—perhaps from the spices—but with each bite, the sensation worsens.
Is this anxiety?
I thought I was finally relaxing a bit.
But then my throat feels tighter, my breaths become shorter, and it hits me—this isn’t mere discomfort.
It’s an allergic reaction.
My pulse skyrockets, a frantic rhythm of dread as I realize there must be peanuts in the curry.
No, not now.
“Amelia, you okay?” Oliver’s concern-laced voice cuts through my rising panic.
I try to speak, but my voice is barely a whisper, strained and hoarse. My fork clatters to the floor as my hands clutch at my throat, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. When I stand to reach for my backpack, my vision begins to blur alarmingly at the edges.
Misha notices my distress. His usual playfulness is instantly replaced by alarm. “Amelia, what’s wrong?” he asks, rising swiftly from his seat.
Oliver is by my side in a flash, his chair scraping against the floor as he moves. I reach out for him, feeling my legs buckle, and he catches my arms, gently lowering me to the floor.
“Amelia,” he whispers urgently, bending over me, his eyes wide with fear searching mine.
The scent of strawberries fills my senses.
Why does he smell like Twizzlers Twists?
