Nine people. One table. And not a single person speaking.
The food was impressive—scrambled eggs, buttery croissants, chicken sausages, diced fruit glistening like jewels in a wide ceramic bowl—but no one was really eating. Plates were filled, utensils were in hand, but the chewing was mechanical. The silence was dense, thicker than the syrup slowly seeping from its glass bottle.
Chris sat at the head of the table, regal by default, but tense. His jaw worked as he cut through a sausage without looking at it. Sky sat two seats away from him, next to Henry, who kept glancing between them like he'd stumbled into a cold war.
Mei sat across from Sky, Rain beside her. Noel was at the far end, seemingly fascinated by the way his orange juice reflected the light.
You don't want to talk about Rachel. She was beside Chris. It looked like she was counting her breathing.
Jack was next to Wilson, who had made the mistake of trying—bless him—to lighten the mood.
