surrounding me

chapter one- Evelyn

I don't know why I feel so cold right now. It's not new to me; feeling a little chilly has always been a part of me, but today, I feel colder. Much colder. I'm sitting in the dining hall, alone, having what should be dinner—or is it lunch? It doesn't matter. It's my second meal of the day, and it's already 11:30 PM. The darkness outside presses against the windows, making the light inside feel harsh and unforgiving.

I hate sitting here. Our dining hall is situated in the middle of the house, which means anyone can see me if they just wander by. The openness feels like an invasion, like I'm constantly on display. I curl up as much as I can, slumping my shoulders forward, trying to make myself smaller, less noticeable. The hope is that anyone who walks by won't see me, or at least won't notice me enough to stop and talk. I crave invisibility, just for a moment of peace.The food on my plate feels like a collection of insurmountable obstacles, each piece a large, unmanageable lump that I struggle to swallow. It's not a new sensation. My relationship with food changes with the environment I'm in. When I'm in a happy place, surrounded by warmth and laughter, I relish my meals. I feel hunger, a genuine, hearty appetite that makes each bite a joy. But when the atmosphere shifts, when the walls close in and the air feels heavy with unspoken words and hidden glances, I lose that hunger. Eating becomes a chore, each bite an effort.

Tonight, the house is quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It's the quiet of tension, the kind that prickles your skin and makes the silence feel oppressive. Every clink of my fork against the plate sounds magnified, echoing in the emptiness. I pick at my food, pushing it around more than actually eating it. My stomach churns, not with hunger but with anxiety. The cold seeps deeper into my bones, and I wonder if it's just the temperature or something more. The chill feels internal, as if it's coming from within me rather than from the room. I can't shake the feeling of isolation, even in my own home. I miss the warmth of connection, the simple comfort of being seen and understood. But for now, I remain huddled at the table, shivering in the cold that's more than just physical, trying to finish a meal that feels like a mountain to climb.

As I sit in the dining hall, picking at my dinner, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps approaching. Suddenly, my mother passes by, her eyes catching mine. She stops and looks at me with a mixture of surprise and mild curiosity. "Finally, you're out of your room," she remarks, her tone laced with thinly veiled frustration. "What do you do in that small corner all day?" Her words hang in the air, heavy and accusatory. I force a smile, the kind that feels awkward and forced, like a mask I've worn too many times. "Oh, you know, just keeping busy," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. I want to seem silly and harmless, anything to avoid further scrutiny. She studies me for a moment longer, then shakes her head slightly and walks away, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

I turn back to my plate, determined to finish the small portion of rice and chicken as quickly as possible. My appetite is nonexistent, each bite feeling like an insurmountable task. I pray silently that no one else will come by, that I can retreat to the safety of my room without any more encounters. But, as with so many of my prayers, this one goes unanswered. The sound of footsteps returns, heavier and more deliberate this time. My father enters the dining hall, his presence immediately filling the space with tension. He stops and looks at me, his eyes narrowing with an expression that I've come to recognize all too well—disgust.

"Why are you sitting here?" his eyes seem to ask, though his lips remain tightly pressed together. His gaze is piercing, making me feel even smaller and more insignificant. It's no secret that he has never liked me much; everyone knows that. But recently, it feels like he sees me not just as a disappointment, but as a burden. Someone who merely exists in the house, making the air heavy with their presence.He mumbles something under his breath, words that I can't quite make out, but the tone is clear enough—disdain. His eyes bore into me for a moment longer before he turns and leaves, his departure as abrupt as his arrival.I exhale a deep, shaky breath, feeling a fleeting sense of relief. I hastily finish my meal, each bite more a necessity than a desire. I need to escape, to return to the one place where I feel safe. I need to be back in my room, away from the prying eyes and harsh judgments.