The waitress, a woman with tired eyes and a quick smile, set down their plates with a clatter.
“You look like you’re carrying the world,” she said to Lysandra, her voice kind but blunt.
Lysandra glanced up, her fork pausing midair.
“Just a piece of it,” she said, her tone light but her eyes heavy.
The waitress nodded like she understood, and left a small stack of napkins by Lysandra’s plate—a quiet gesture of care.
Claire watched, then leaned forward, whispering: “They’re falling apart, without you even trying.”
Lysandra pushed her plate aside, her gaze drifting to the window where a plane cut across the sky, its trail fading into the clouds.
A week later, Lysandra made her move. At a quiet press event, she stood in front of a smaller crowd.
No cameras, no fanfare. Just a few reporters, some staff, and a handful of curious onlookers.
