Trauma changes people. trauma changes everyone.
All rights for the 9-1-1 cast and all rights to most of the plot goes to ABC. New plots and new characters belong to me 🫶
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LYDIA
The sound of the oven timer beeping echoed from the kitchen, and I flinched, already feeling the weight of the day pressing on me. My laptop sat open at the register, a half-finished essay glaring at me from the screen. A customer was waiting at the counter, tapping their fingers impatiently. Delilah was supposed to be taking over up front, but she was still in the back, probably chatting with Miles about something unimportant.
"Can I get a refill?" the customer asked, breaking into my thoughts.
"Yeah, sure," I said, grabbing their cup and turning to the soda machine. My movements felt robotic, like I was going through the motions without even thinking.
Behind me, the kitchen door swung open, and Tyler came out carrying a stack of plates. "Yo, Lyds, table five needs their garlic knots," he called.
"I'm aware," I snapped, handing the customer their drink with a tight smile before turning to him. "Can you just-handle it, Tyler? I'm a little busy."
He raised an eyebrow at my tone but didn't say anything, disappearing back into the kitchen.
I sighed, leaning against the counter for a moment. My head was pounding, my brain cluttered with to-do lists: finish the essay, reply to the discussion board, study for the quiz, clean the tables, refill the drinks, smile at customers... It felt like too much.
********
By the time my break rolled around, I was ready to scream. I sat down at one of the corner tables, opening my laptop and trying to focus on my schoolwork. I was halfway through a paragraph when Delilah finally emerged from the kitchen, holding a plate of fries.
"Here," she said, sliding the plate in front of me. "You need to eat."
"I'm fine," I muttered, not looking up.
"You're not fine," she said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me. "You've been snapping at everyone all day. What's going on?"
I stopped typing, my fingers hovering over the keys. "It's just... a lot," I admitted, my voice quieter now. "Work, school-it feels like I'm constantly behind, no matter how hard I try to keep up."
Delilah nodded, resting her chin on her hand. "I get it. But you can't keep running yourself into the ground, Lyds. You need to take a breath."
"I don't have time to take a breath," I said, my frustration bubbling up again. "If I stop for even a second, I'll fall even further behind."
Delilah didn't argue. She just sat there, giving me the space to vent.
********
Later, after my shift, I sat in my car in the pizzeria parking lot, staring at the dashboard. The day had been rough, and I felt like I'd barely kept it together. But as I thought about everything-the stress, the frustration-I also thought about why I was doing this in the first place.
I wanted a future. I wanted to be a private investigator, to prove to myself that I could do something meaningful with my life. It wasn't going to be easy, but I knew it would be worth it.
When I finally got home, I opened my laptop and dove back into my essay. The words came slowly, but they came.
One step at a time, I reminded myself. I could do this. I had to.
