Chapter 7: You’re Such A Messy Eater

Part 1

The diner buzzed with the usual late-afternoon cacophony—the rhythmic whine of blenders, the screech of metal chair legs against tile, and a sudden, sharp shriek from the back. But at a small table near the railing, Olivia and Erika sat encased in a bubble of silence so dense it felt like radio static.

Olivia maneuvered her crutches around the chair with the grace of a baby giraffe learning to walk. One crutch slipped and clacked loudly against the table leg. She winced, cheeks puffing in embarrassment, then lowered herself into the seat with a dramatic, exhausted sigh. Her ankle throbbed as she propped it on the chair beside her, and she muttered something about “battle wounds” like she was recounting a war story no one had asked for.

Across from her, Erika was busy. She wasn't just sitting; she arranged napkins, utensils, and hand sanitizer with military precision. Fork parallel to knife. Knife parallel to spoon. Spoon parallel to napkin. She adjusted the fork again. And again. Beneath the table, her knee was bouncing—a tiny, restless tremor she didn’t seem aware of.

“She’s half an hour late,” Erika said, eyes flicking to the entrance.

“There must be traffic,” Olivia offered, though her voice lacked conviction. Her gaze stayed glued to the windows across the room, tracking every silhouette that passed like she was waiting for a ghost to materialize.

Every few seconds, their heads snapped toward the door in perfect, synchronized anxiety.

Then back at the table.

Then at the entrance again.

A server approached, offering a polite, practiced smile as they set down two steaming plates. The scent of garlic, heavy cream, and toasted parmesan drifted upward—warm and comforting under normal circumstances. Neither girl picked up a fork.

“Garlic parmesan pasta for you,” the server said, placing the bowl in front of Olivia, “and creamy Tuscan chicken for you.”

“Thanks,” Erika murmured, though her eyes were already drifting back toward the door.

The server retreated. The food sat there, losing its heat.

Olivia twirled a single noodle around her fork, lifted it halfway to her mouth, and then let it fall back into the bowl with a soft, defeated plop.

“I don’t even feel hungry,” she admitted, her voice uncharacteristically small.

“That’s because you’re anxious,” Erika said, though she hadn’t touched her own fork either. She straightened the napkin for the third time. “We shouldn’t have come. We should’ve gone to her place. Or called again. Or—”

“We already called twice,” Olivia reminded her. “If we call a third time, it becomes harassment. Or a wellness check. Probably both. Like you said, we have to be the ‘Safe Zone,’, Erika. Heroes don’t crowd the wounded.”

Erika exhaled sharply, her thumb tracing the ring of condensation on her water cup. “I just... I don’t know if we should be here. Doing this. Laughing. Acting like today is just another Tuesday on the calendar.”

Olivia watched her braids sway as she gave a somber nod. “Yeah. It feels wrong. Like we’re trying to skip a cinematic cutscene where the party leader is supposed to be mourning.”

A group of loud teenagers passed by, their laughter ringing out with a jagged, careless energy that made both girls flinch. The world was moving at 1x speed while they were trapped in an emotional slow-motion.

Erika looked at the door again, her stomach doing a slow, nauseous somersault. “Maybe we should just get these to-go and—”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound was rhythmic, heavy, and purposeful. It cut through the diner’s hum with a sharp, staccato frequency.

Erika’s knee went still. Olivia’s spine snapped into a military straight line. Neither of them turned around. They waited for the scent—the too-strong floral perfume that Sera used to mask the smell of her sweat.

“Sorry I’m late!”

The girls jolted so hard the silverware rattled against the table.

Sera stood beside the pillar, breathless but beaming, her tote bag bouncing against her hip like she’d jogged the last few steps. Her hair was slightly wind‑tousled, cheeks faintly flushed — the look of someone who had rushed, but not for the reasons they feared.

She looked… fine.

She looked terrifyingly normal.

“Ugh, the professor went on a total tangent about economic equilibrium models,” Sera said, her voice carrying a hollow, bell-like clarity. She tossed her tote bag onto the spare chair—the heavy thunk of her laptop echoed like a closing door. “I honestly thought I was going to die of boredom. Some people just love the sound of their own breath, don't they?”

Erika blinked. Olivia blinked. Neither spoke. Their brains were still catching up to the fact that Sera was here, smiling, acting like the world hadn’t cracked open the night before.

Sera’s gaze dropped to the table, her eyes widening. “Oh! Food!”

Before they could even offer a greeting, she slid into the seat with a little bounce, scooting her chair forward until her knees bumped the table. She reached for Olivia’s pasta without a shred of hesitation.

“I’m starving,” she declared, already twirling a massive forkful of noodles. “You guys are absolute lifesavers.”

Olivia stared, her mouth hanging slightly open. “Uh—Sera? That’s... that’s my—”

But Sera was already chewing, humming with a sort of forced, melodic appreciation. She reached for Erika’s chicken next, her fork hovering with the terrifying confidence of someone who assumed the world was hers for the taking.

Erika’s breath caught—not in anger, but in a strange, vibrating mixture of relief and pure, unadulterated suspicion.

Sera’s smile was bright. It was blinding. And her laugh—a quick, airy little giggle—was just a shade too light, like she was trying to fill every square inch of the silence before anyone else could find the words to break it.

Part 2

Olivia leaned toward Erika, whispering behind her hand, “Hey, I thought she hated garlic breath.”

Erika didn’t look away from Sera. “She does. And look at her—she’s already blown past her calorie limit for the day.” Her voice was low and clinical, but her knee was still drumming a frantic rhythm under the table.

Sera didn’t notice.

Or maybe she was just committed to the bit.

She reached for another massive coil of pasta at the exact second Olivia lunged to salvage what was left of her meal.

"Okay, I think you've had enough," Olivia said, guarding the bowl. "That’s my food."

"It is the law of the land," Sera rebutted, her eyes wide and unnervingly bright. "The strong have the right to devour the weak."

Clink.

Their forks collided with a sharp, metallic ring.

Both girls froze.

A single, glossy noodle lifted between them—a shimmering, buttery strand suspended in midair, wobbling with the indecision of a tightrope walker.

Olivia’s eyes widened.

Sera’s eyes sparkled.

Erika’s soul quietly packed its bags and left her body.

The noodle stretched, trembling under the weight of the garlic sauce. Olivia’s grip tightened, her knuckles turning a ghostly white. Sera’s posture shifted, relaxing into something playful—almost predatory.

The diner’s fluorescent lights seemed to dim, or maybe Erika’s vision was just tunneling in pure horror.

Olivia swallowed hard. “Sera… we can just… cut the noodle.”

Sera tilted her head, a mischievous curl touching her lips. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The noodle quivered.

They leaned in.

Closer.

Closer.

Olivia’s breath hitched.

Sera’s lashes lowered.

Erika slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting around the room as she mouthed no no no no no like a mantra to ward off an ancient curse.

The noodle stretched to its limit—

SNAP.

The broken ends flicked upward. One slapped Olivia squarely in the cheek; the other landed neatly on Sera’s collarbone.

For a heartbeat, there was total silence.

Then Sera burst into laughter. It was bright, unrestrained, and loud enough to turn heads—the kind of laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep and chaotic. She leaned back, clutching her stomach, actual tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

"Oh my god," she wheezed, her voice cracking. "I thought... I really thought my first kiss was going to be with a girl over a strand of pasta!"

Olivia sat like a statue, the garlic sauce cooling on her cheek. The pink in her face deepened into a scorching, nuclear scarlet. She looked like her internal wiring had just suffered a catastrophic short-circuit.

Sera leaned forward, still giggling. With the gentle, terrifying authority of a grandmother cleaning a messy toddler, she dabbed a napkin across Olivia’s cheek.

“Hold still,” she said warmly. “You’re such a messy eater.”

Her touch was light, but steady. For a second, her fingers brushed against Olivia’s jawline—a micro-beat of genuine warmth that made Olivia’s breath catch all over again.

"There," Sera said. Her voice had dropped the manic edge. It was soft. "Cleaned and restored to your former glory."

She looked down at her own stained collar and shrugged. The panic that had been simmering in her eyes for the last twenty-four hours seemed, for a moment, doused by the sheer absurdity of the noodle.

Erika finally found her voice—or a raspy imitation of it. “Sera,” she said, choosing her words like she was navigating a minefield. “Are you… feeling okay?”

Sera’s laughter softened. The brightness in her expression dimmed just a fraction—a flicker, a shadow, a momentary crack in the porcelain.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to worry you both.”

Olivia’s fork clattered onto the plate. She leaned forward, her brows knitting together. “Sera…”

Sera looked down at her hands, her thumbs brushing over each other—a small, nervous motion that didn't fit the "Logic Queen" persona. She took a breath, straightened her posture, and lifted her chin with a practiced, radiant smile.

“But not yet,” Sera added, her voice soft but firm. “Not today. Today, I just want to be the girl who lost a fight with a noodle.”

Erika and Olivia exchanged a look—a silent, heavy conversation that passed in a single heartbeat.

She’s not okay.

But she wants us to believe she is.

So… what do we do?

Erika opened her mouth to push—just a little, just enough to show she wasn't fooled.

But Sera beat her to it.

She clapped her hands once, the sound too sharp and too bright, shattering the heaviness before it could take root.

“Anyway!” she chirped, her voice shifting back into that forced, high-energy cheer. “Since we’re all here, why don’t we bring out the book and conquer the next level?”

Olivia blinked, still reeling from the cheek-touch. “Oh! Right—I brought it.”

Author's Note: Thank you for the long wait. The last week was pretty busy and I finally have time to continue my writing. Please remember to show your love and appreciation by tapping a 'like' and giving me a comment.