I always sit in the back corner of the cafeteria. Fourth tile from the door, two to the right. That's my route. Safe, predictable. The only part of the day that feels like mine.
The moment I walk in, the noise hits me like a slap - trays clattering, shoes squeaking, conversations slamming into each other like bumper cars. I clutch my sketchbook tighter, press it into my ribs like a shield. Don't look. Don't draw attention. Just move.
I slide into the usual seat and pull my hoodie tighter around me. The table is cool beneath my arms, slightly sticky. I don't care. I open the sketchbook and pretend like the page matters more than the room. No one notices me. They never do. That's the plan.
I don't do lunch lines. Not because I'm too cool or anything. I just... can't. The crowd, the noise, the pressure to decide quickly - it's too much. And the food? Half the time I can't even swallow it. My throat clamps up like it's trying to protect me from poison. ARFID, they called it. I just call it exhausting.
My stomach grumbles, loud enough that I wince. I glance up instinctively, but no one heard. Good. I stare at the page in front of me. Blank. My hand hovers, then moves on its own. A wing. No, not a pretty one. Not angelic or graceful. Tattered. Bent. Torn where it tried to heal wrong.
I don't draw the rest of the body yet. Just the wings. I imagine them stitched to my back, foreign and fragile, like they were never really meant to be there but somehow still belong.
Someone at a nearby table laughs too loudly. It jars me. I twitch, pencil smudging the corner of the wing. I cover it quickly with a shadow. Mistake becomes texture. That's how it works with art - and maybe with life, too. Maybe.
A girl struts past my table, gum popping in her mouth. She doesn't look at me. Doesn't pause. Doesn't even blink. She walks past like I'm invisible. And somehow, that hurts more than if she'd called me a name.
I rest my chin on my palm, eyes flicking to the cafeteria door. Still twenty minutes left. I could leave. I could always leave. But then what? Sit under the stairwell again? Pretend to read a book I've already memorized? Draw wings until they mean nothing?
I press the pencil harder against the paper, darkening the feathers. I want this version of me - the one with wings - to be real. She looks fragile, yes, but also like she could lift off at any moment. She's trying. That matters. Doesn't it?
I write one word beneath her feet: Becoming.
And that's when it happens. That twitch in my chest. Not pain. Not hunger. Something softer. Like memory. Like the hum of a verse I used to recite with my eyes closed, beneath the covers, before I knew what silence from heaven felt like.
"Please," I whisper.
It comes out barely audible, but it echoes in me louder than the cafeteria noise. It's not a prayer exactly. Not yet. More like a reaching. A quiet nudge toward something bigger. Toward the God I'm still mad at but can't quite let go of.
I flip the page.
This time, I draw a girl facing forward. Her hair is short like mine, curls messy, eyes wide but tired. Her wings are smaller, but growing. She's barefoot. She stands on rough ground but lifts her chin just a little.
A boy drops into a seat two tables away. Not near me, not far either. He opens a thermos and pulls out a mango. I watch him slice into it, neat, practiced. The scent drifts over. Sweet. Familiar. It reminds me of summers when the world still felt soft.
He looks up suddenly, and for a second, I think he's looking at me. My heart stutters. But then his gaze shifts. Past me. I exhale, too sharp.
I slam the sketchbook shut.
My hands are shaking again. I press them flat on the table. Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four. It barely works, but it keeps me here.
I think about the bus ride this morning. How the driver didn't make eye contact when I boarded. How I took the same seat, third from the back, window side. How the rumble of the engine reminded me of a different time. One I don't talk about. Not even in my journal.
Especially not in my journal.
My foot taps beneath the table. Restless. Anxious. Always in motion, even when I'm sitting still. I shake my leg because it's better than screaming.
Someone slams a tray down nearby. My body jumps. My breath catches.
I count tiles again. Four forward. Two right. Anchor myself to the pattern. It's how I survive.
I open the sketchbook one more time. This time, I don't draw. I write.
"If I had wings, I'd fly somewhere quiet. Not far. Just enough to breathe without asking permission."
And below it I doodle.
That should count for something, shouldn't it?
The bell rings. Everyone rises. A clatter of chairs and trays and laughter. I wait until the room is mostly empty. Then I stand, slowly. My legs feel hollow. My sketchbook feels heavier than before, like it's carrying more than just graphite.
As I walk past the boy with the mango, he looks up again. This time, I'm sure it's at me.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't speak.
But he sees me.
And that's enough for today