Page 51 of Picture Perfect

Fuck, I wish it was a cupcake. I can't even remember the last time I'd tasted something artificially sweet. Instead, it’s a depressing little salad, sans dressing of course. We can't have empty calories, can we?

I spear a slice of apple with my fork, noting how it almost disintegrates under the tines. The greens are sturdy yet hollow, like plastic decor rather than real food. I can polish off the entire plate in a single bite, it’s so insubstantial. But, I know better than to complain.

So I slowly chew the spartan salad, secretly eyeing the rich dishes my family and their guests heartily enjoy mere feet away. I swallow bitterness along with the tasteless greens, knowing this designer side salad is meant to taunt rather than truly nourish me. Still, I accept my lot, dutifully eating what I’m given. A porcelain doll doesn't require real food, after all

Dre's hand brushes mine under the table, a fleeting touch that might be mistaken for accidental. But nothing about Dre is unintentional. "You can ask for more," he whispers, close enough that his breath tickles my ear.

"Wouldn't make a difference." My reply is terse, clipped by the frustration that simmers below the surface.

"Maybe not to them," Dre says, his gaze flickering to where William and Mason are deep in discussion, "but to me."

I glance up, catching Saint's eye once again. He's watching me, always watching, with a look that's impossible to decipher. I wonder if he sees past the façade, if he understands the hunger that isn't solely for food.

I offer him a plastic smile. His brow furrows before he rips his eyes away from me, cutting into his steak with a precision that feels like a warning. His indifference is a blade, one I'm becoming adept at dodging.

The clink of silverware against fine china blends with the low hum of conversation, creating a symphony of high society I never asked to join. My fingers tremble slightly as I nudge my fork through the pitiable excuse for a salad before me. Each wilted leaf is a reminder of my place in this world—a decoration that's meant to be seen, not satisfied.

Dre hums casually, his voice a deep rumble next to me. He takes a generous bite, and I catch the scent of herbs and butter, rich and intoxicating.

The hunger lances through me, sharp and insistent, but I school my features into neutrality. There's a price to pay for every single desire—even the basic need for food.

My hand is steady now as I lift a shard of apple to my lips, chewing slowly to savor the meager sweetness. In my periphery, the others indulge in their meals, oblivious to the game of deprivation played at my expense. It's a cruel sport where I'm both the competitor and the prize.

"Snowflake," Dre leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. I ignore him, keeping my eyes on my plate.

His knee brushes against mine again, an anchor in the sea of opulence that threatens to drown me. I take another bite, the greens almost tasteless now, and pretend that I'm full—not just of this mockery of a meal, but of the life they've chosen for me.

The hum of conversations around me is like the buzz of a beehive, each word and laugh a sting reminding me of my place on the outskirts. I feel Gen's gaze linger on the pitiful greenery before me, the curiosity in her eyes sharp as a blade. Yet, she says nothing—no pitying remark or veiled jab about my paltry meal. For that small mercy, my heart inches towards her with hesitant gratitude.

"School projects are swallowing me whole," Gen breaks the silence between us, her voice a soothing balm against the cacophony of clinking cutlery and boisterous discussions. "What do you think about the English assignment? Symbolism in modern literature... it's fascinating, isn't it?"

I blink, surprised by the normalcy in her words, the bridge she's extending across the chasm that has been our interactions. "Yeah, it's—there's a lot to unpack." My voice falters, unpracticed in the art of casual conversation. "Especially the part about colors representing characters' emotions."

A light flickers in Gen's eyes, and she leans forward, animated. "Exactly! Like how red can mean love, or anger, or even danger. It's all about context." Her enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I bask in the glow of genuine connection.

"Context is everything," I affirm, feeling a semblance of normalcy weave its way into the fibers of my being. But then the laughter from across the table snatches me back to reality.

William's booming voice cuts through the din. "And with the new merger, our prospects have doubled." He raises his glass, toasting to unseen fortunes that dance just beyond my grasp.

Mason, ever the businessman, nods in agreement. "To success and the relentless pursuit of it." Their words float high above my head, untethered to the life I lead—one where success means surviving another day without breaking.

"Charm them, Addy," I remind myself silently, the mantra as hollow as the chamber of my chest where my heart should beat freely. I'm an ornament here, expected to glimmer and gleam under their scrutinizing gazes.

"Gen," I venture again, forcing brightness into my tone, "have you thought about what you're going to wear to the Winter Rose? I bet you'd look stunning in sapphire blue."

"Really?" Her lips curve upwards. "I was thinking emerald green might be more my style. What about you?" There's genuine interest in her voice, a thread that might weave the beginnings of friendship—or something akin to it.

"Green does suit you," I concede, allowing the flicker of camaraderie to warm me, if only for a second. "I haven't decided yet. Something... understated, probably."

"Understated, but undoubtedly beautiful," Gen replies with a kind smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, which hold a wisdom too deep for our years.

Underneath the table, my fingers twist the fabric of my napkin, the coarse linen a testament to the facade I uphold. I am here, yet not here. Seen, yet invisible. Part of the game, yet perpetually on the verge of being cast aside.

"Thank you," I respond, the words tasting of yearning—for acceptance, for something resembling freedom, for a friendship that isn't marred by the shadows that cling to my existence like cobwebs. "You'll outshine us all, Gen."

Her laughter is soft, almost sad, as if she understands that beneath the surface of this cultivated garden party, thorns lie in wait, ready to prick at the first sign of vulnerability.

"Let's hope we both find a way to shine, Addy. Despite it all." And as she speaks, I wonder if perhaps Gen, too, is ensnared in her own version of captivity—a gilded cage with bars just as confining as mine.

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