Chapter 7: The Fragile Facade
Chapter 7: The Fragile Facade
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The Dinner Table
The dinner table is a familiar scene, unchanged in its arrangement, its warmth, its routine.
Yet tonight—it feels different.
Not because of anything visible.
But because of the weight pressing against my chest, the invisible tension that coils around me, suffocating, heavy.
A tension that I have created.
Lily, my younger sister, is chattering excitedly about her day, her voice bright, her energy boundless. She bounces in her seat, barely able to contain herself as she recounts some trivial school event—who said what, which teacher was annoying, how she completely destroyed her best friend in a math quiz.
She's pure, unburdened, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.
Across the table, Mark, my older brother, is mostly silent, as he always is. He picks at his food, his focus seemingly elsewhere—except for the moments when his eyes flicker toward me, sharp, unreadable.
I pretend not to notice.
I focus on my plate, on the slow, methodical movements of my fork, the simple, mechanical act of eating.
But I can feel it.
The pressure.
The questions waiting to be asked.
The danger of being noticed.
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Navigating the Minefield
"So, Derrick," my mother says, her voice light, casual. "How was your day?"
I freeze for half a second.
Then, I force a smile, keeping my voice even, controlled.
"Same as usual. Nothing special."
A vague answer. A safe answer.
It works—at least on her.
She nods, satisfied, moving on to another topic.
But Mark—
Mark is still watching me.
Not in an obvious way.
Not enough to make it confrontational.
But I can feel it.
A slow, deliberate assessment.
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The Burden of Silence
The conversation flows around me, a current I carefully navigate, responding only when necessary, offering just enough to blend in.
But the effort is draining.
The warmth of the meal, the laughter shared, feels like a performance—a carefully constructed reality that is both comforting and suffocating.
I focus on my food.
Each bite is mechanical, tasteless.
Each word spoken feels like a lie by omission.
The weight of my secret—the bruises beneath my sweater, the echoes of laughter from earlier, the sting of powerlessness—presses down, a heavy cloak I wear under the guise of normalcy.
And then—
Mark speaks.
"You're quieter than usual."
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The Unspoken Challenge
The words aren't accusatory, but they aren't casual either.
They're precise. Calculated.
Mark has always been observant in ways others aren't.
I glance up, meeting his gaze for a split second before looking away.
"Just tired," I say. "Long day."
A carefully crafted excuse.
I expect him to drop it.
Instead, he holds my gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Then, finally—he nods, returning to his meal.
The tension eases, but it doesn't disappear.
Because I know.
Mark doesn't believe me.
And that realization settles like a cold weight in my stomach.
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The Strain of Holding It Together
Lily remains blissfully unaware, continuing to talk, her joy unaffected by the silent battle happening at the table.
She doesn't notice the way my shoulders are slightly tense.
She doesn't notice the way Mark's attention lingers.
She doesn't see the carefully constructed walls I'm holding up.
And for that, I'm grateful.
Because the moment someone truly sees through me—
Everything I've built will begin to crumble.