Sleeping Beauty (But Definitely Not Cursed, Just... You Know... Traumatized): Plus, My Dress Has More Baggage Than I Do.
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Author Note: Seriously considering starting a support group for people whose dads are famous in fictional fashion capitals. First meeting will be BYO existential dread. Also, someone get Melinda a tiara. She deserves it.
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Maggie sat quietly on the edge of Melinda's bed, her hands folded loosely in her lap, eyes fixed on the gentle rhythm of her friend's breathing. The room was silent except for the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the soft ticking of the wall clock, each second passing like a quiet reminder that time never really stopped—not even for grief, or healing.
Sunlight streamed lazily through the half-open window, golden rays filtering past the sheer curtains and lighting the small bedroom in a warm, ethereal glow. Dust motes danced in the light like tiny spirits caught between moments, drifting slowly across the air as if reluctant to land. The sunlight touched Melinda's face delicately, casting a soft halo around her head, giving her an almost angelic appearance.
She looked peaceful—truly peaceful in a way that Maggie hadn't seen in weeks. Sleep had smoothed out the tension lines from her brow, easing the usual guarded set of her jaw. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing steady and deep, like a child untouched by the cruelty of the world. Maggie felt something twist inside her chest.
Melinda's mother had left days ago for another one of those long, secretive witch gatherings. Coven meetings, they called them. But Maggie knew better—they were political now, bureaucratic, and sometimes dangerous. They could last for weeks, even months, filled with internal power struggles and old, whispered magics no one dared to speak aloud.
Rather than leave Melinda alone or continue hiding her in a motel room night after night, Maggie had brought her home. It wasn't just practical—it felt right. Safer. More human. She didn't want to keep charming motel owners, manipulating their minds into forgetting who came and went. Those kinds of spells—illusions and emotional manipulations—came with a price. Not just morally, but magically. Overuse could degrade the brain's synaptic pathways, leading to memory loss, neurological breakdowns, or, in some extreme cases, tumors. It wasn't just theory—it was history, written in the margins of lost grimoires and the lips of dead witches.
She glanced at Melinda again, her heart tightening. There was something so heartbreakingly vulnerable in the way she slept—an innocence that most people would never associate with her. Most only saw the hardened edge, the street-smart mouth, the way Melinda wore her pain like armor and moved through life daring the world to hurt her again. But underneath all that... she was just a girl who had lost too much too quickly.
Maggie blinked rapidly, trying to fight the sting rising behind her eyes. The memory came uninvited—sharp and red. The accident. The blood. The overwhelming sense of helplessness as she watched Melinda scream in agony, her arm mangled beyond repair. The echo of that day never truly left her. It lived at the edge of her thoughts, a shadow she couldn't shake.
People thought Melinda was hard, cold even. They didn't see the way she clung to Maggie's hand at night when the nightmares came. They didn't hear the way her voice cracked when she asked if she'd ever be the same again. Maggie saw all of it. And the guilt she carried—for not stopping it, for not seeing it coming—was a silent ache she bore every single day.
A persistent, gnawing guilt had rooted itself deep inside Maggie, subtle yet relentless, like a quiet ache that never truly faded. It lingered at the edges of her thoughts, surfacing in the quiet moments, whispering that maybe—just maybe—she had played a part in the tragedy that had changed Melinda's life forever. The feeling didn't scream or accuse; it simply pulsed there, ever-present, like a wound beneath the skin that never quite healed. Even if her involvement had been indirect, even if logic told her she couldn't have foreseen what would happen, her heart remained unconvinced.
It was a heaviness she had grown familiar with. One she carried like a secret weight, hidden behind soft smiles and thoughtful glances. She had always been the one others didn't take too seriously, especially her mother—who dismissed Maggie as the dreamy type, always lost in her thoughts, drifting somewhere between fashion sketches and half-formed fantasies. Her mind, they said, lived in the clouds, obsessed with beauty, with fabric and color, with stories spun from silk and light.
They weren't entirely wrong.
But what no one seemed to understand was how Maggie used that imagination to cope with the ugliness around her. She had never been blind to reality—only afraid that facing it directly would crush her. She found comfort in details others ignored: the way sunlight hit patterned lace, the sound of scissors slicing through satin, the gentle hush of a finished hem brushing her legs. These were her anchors in a world that often felt too heavy, too cruel.
Still, the "what ifs" tormented her in the dark.
What if she had spoken up more? What if she had never spoke about Riverdale that day, pressed Melinda to speak up more? What if she had been stronger—less passive, less trusting of the people around her? Would Melinda still have both arms? Would she still laugh the same way, without the pain tucked behind her eyes?
A soft, almost inaudible sigh escaped Maggie's lips, a gentle exhale that barely stirred the stillness in the room. She rose slowly from her seat by Melinda's bedside, her movements quiet and deliberate, as though afraid to wake a dream. Her hands moved down the length of her white dress, smoothing the fabric with a tenderness that spoke of more than vanity. The dress was delicate, made of fine cotton lace and soft, flowing silk that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Each stitch seemed to carry a memory, and the skirt, long and elegant, swayed softly as she moved.
It wasn't just the dress's beauty that made it special. It was a piece of her father—a man whose presence in her life had always been more myth than reality. He had crafted the garment for her by hand, long before he vanished into the bright, demanding world of Pestco, the glittering fashion capital that seemed more like a storybook than a real place. Maggie knew it only through old polaroids and the quiet tone her mother used whenever she mentioned his name.
Pestco was another life. Another world. Her father had been a celebrated designer there, his creations walking down runways under flashing lights and thunderous applause. Yet, in all his success, this dress was the only thing he had ever sent back. It arrived folded neatly in a lavender-scented box, wrapped in tissue like it was sacred.
And in a way, it was.
Now, as she stood in the room—her best friend lying injured, asleep, and fragile before her—Maggie felt more like that little girl again. The one who waited by the window for a father who never returned, wearing a dress made for dreams.
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Her mother had always kept a quiet but resolute distance between them when it came to her father, drawing a firm, invisible line that Maggie learned never to cross. There were no shouting matches, no grand declarations—just a kind of steel in her mother's silence, a steady insistence that the separation was necessary, even right. It was always delivered with calm eyes and final words, as if she believed that logic and love could not occupy the same space.
Maggie, even as a child, had craved more than that. She had longed for connection, not just stories filtered through her mother's tightly held perspective. She wanted the whole picture. The full truth. She wanted to know the man behind the memories. The one who had held her once, maybe twice, and smiled at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
But arguing with her mother had always been a losing game. Her mother's decisions came with walls, not windows, and Maggie learned early on to retreat into silence rather than wage a war she could never win.
Still, the longing remained.
It was a quiet, aching thing that nestled deep inside her chest—never loud, never demanding, just there. Always there. A shadow of what could've been. She missed him in ways she didn't know how to explain. It wasn't just the idea of him—it was the imagined sound of his voice saying her name with pride. The weight of his arm around her shoulders. The scent of cologne lingering on a warm hug. It was the belief she thought he might have had in her, the kind that made you feel like you could do anything, be anything. The kind of belief her mother never seemed to express, not openly, not without layers of caution and concern.
Despite the physical distance, despite the unspoken wedge her mother had driven between them, her father had found ways to reach across the silence.
Little things.
Personal things.
He sent packages—never too often, just enough to remind her she wasn't forgotten. Sketches of his newest designs, always signed with his name in looping cursive. Swatches of fabric from faraway markets, each square folded neatly, pinned to parchment, and labeled in his tidy handwriting: Venetian silk, blush rose, or Cashmere from Yakoz Bay. Each piece was a whisper from another world, a touch of luxury, a taste of the life she could've known.
Once, he'd sent a music box—small, carved from rich mahogany, with tiny golden hinges and a hand-painted lid. When opened, it played a soft, mournful melody that lingered in the air like a lullaby. Maggie had cried the first time she heard it. She didn't know why. Maybe it was the tenderness of the song. Maybe it was the ache of knowing he had chosen it, just for her.
Sometimes, when her mother was out, Maggie would turn on the television and search for reruns of his fashion shows. Pestco's runways were like something out of a dream—lights cascading over shimmering fabrics, models gliding like goddesses in dresses that moved like water. She would sit cross-legged in front of the screen, fingers curled into the hem of her dress, eyes wide with wonder. She memorized every look, every detail, not just because she admired his work—but because it was all she had of him.
In those quiet hours, she let herself believe. She imagined what life might've looked like if she'd gone with him—if her mother had allowed it. She pictured herself in Pestco, draped in elegance, sketching beside him in his studio, learning how to cut, how to drape, how to dream with scissors and thread. Maybe, in that world, she would've already been a designer in her own right. Maybe her name would've been on a label by now.
Maybe she would've felt like she truly belonged somewhere.
But beneath the surface of all these shimmering, impossible dreams—of runways and studio lights, of whispered father-daughter laughter echoing down silk-draped hallways—there lingered a truth that Maggie could never quite escape. It was harsh, cold, and immovable, like stone beneath the warmth of a summer meadow. No matter how vivid her fantasies became, no matter how much she tried to dress them in layers of hope, she knew the reality they were stitched from would never hold.
Her body, her blood, the very essence of her being—she wasn't like the others.
She was born different.
The raw energy that surged quietly through her veins, unseen but ever-present, wasn't just a family inheritance—it was dangerous. Her magic frequency, a subtle but potent aura that pulsed with ancient force, wasn't something that could be switched off or muted. And for all the beauty and power it granted her, it came with a cost.
That cost, more often than not, was human.
It wasn't safe for people like her—true witches or gifted wizards—to remain too long in close proximity to non-magical beings. "Normals," as they were often called behind closed doors, lacked the internal resistance, the shielding needed to survive the long-term exposure to magical signatures. To be around a witch like Maggie for too long was to slowly invite magic into the body in a way it was never designed to accept. It started subtly—a heightened sense, a recurring dream, a flash of something just beyond the edge of understanding.
But then it got worse.
Their cells began to change. Their minds started to shift. It was never the same twice—sometimes it manifested as madness, sometimes as horrific physical mutations. There was no rulebook. No known cure. Just a creeping, irreversible transformation that turned loved ones into strangers... into monsters.
It was a slow betrayal of the body, and the worst part was that they never saw it coming.
To watch someone you love begin to unravel like that—to see the light in their eyes dim, to hear their voice twist into something unfamiliar—was the kind of pain no spell could dull. It left you with only two options, neither of them merciful in truth: either end their life before they lost themselves completely or stand by helplessly as they slipped beyond saving, inch by inch.
And if you were the one who caused it?
You never forgave yourself. Not really.
The scars weren't visible, but they ran deep—into the very soul.
Maggie understood this. Her mother had understood it long before she did, long before Maggie could fathom the weight of what she was. That distance she had always resented, the walls built to keep her from her father, weren't born of spite. They were born of fear. Of painful wisdom. Of love twisted by necessity.
Her father had loved her deeply, without restraint.
But that love—real and true and full of warmth—had carried within it a silent, deadly threat.
And her mother, as cold and calculating as she sometimes seemed, had simply chosen the only path that didn't end in death.
This fundamental truth—the inescapable danger of prolonged closeness to non-magical individuals—wasn't just a rule; it was a survival instinct etched into the minds of every young witch and wizard from the moment they first crossed the threshold of the School of Magic. It wasn't taught with softness or room for ambiguity. No, it was drilled into them with relentless intensity, often delivered through harsh lectures and vivid cautionary tales, accompanied by images too haunting to forget.
"No normals hooking," the ancient adage declared—blunt, absolute, unforgiving. It wasn't merely a tradition; it was law. An uncompromising rule carved into the foundation of arcane society, reinforced generation after generation with the weight of countless tragedies. The phrase might have sounded outdated, even crude, to those outside their world, but for those within it, it was a grim reminder of the boundary between life and irreversible loss.
Interacting with normals was like walking a tightrope stretched over a ravine filled with shadows. Each conversation, each moment of laughter, each glance held too long was a careful balancing act—one misstep, one prolonged encounter, and the rope would snap.
The risk wasn't immediate, and that was what made it so insidious. At first, it felt harmless. Comforting, even.
The magic inside them, the energy that ebbed and flowed like a second heartbeat, was something they carried constantly. It buzzed faintly beneath their skin, a gentle static hum that became part of the background of everyday life. Most days, they barely noticed it. It was just there—like breathing or blinking—unseen but ever-present.
But during moments of heightened emotion or intense spellcasting, that quiet hum transformed into something more demanding. It roared to life, thunderous and loud, drowning out everything else. It clawed at the edges of their minds, pushing them closer to the brink, making them painfully aware of the vast power they held and the price of misusing it.
And then there were the normals.
Around them, that constant hum disappeared.
Vanished.
As if someone had flicked a switch, the noise went dead, leaving behind a silence so profound it felt holy. In that stillness, witches like Maggie could sense the vast difference between the two worlds. The peace that normals lived in—the emotional clarity, the mental stillness—was almost too beautiful to endure. For someone who had always known chaos, it was like tasting calm for the first time. Addictive. Alluring.
It whispered promises. A life without strain. A life without danger.
But Maggie knew better.
She had seen what happened when witches chased that stillness, when they allowed themselves to linger too long in its comforting embrace. The results were never gentle. Never fair.
She had seen what it did to the normals—the slow change in their eyes, the way their skin would shimmer faintly under moonlight, how their thoughts would fracture and rearrange until they no longer recognized themselves. Some lost their memories. Others their sanity. A few lost everything.
And it was always the witch who carried the guilt. Always the one left behind to bury the pieces.
Maggie didn't need another warning. She had enough memories for a lifetime.
A soft stirring from the bed pulled Maggie back from the brink of her melancholy, a gentle sigh escaping Melinda's lips—a barely-there sound, fragile and fleeting, yet sharp enough to cut through the haze of Maggie's spiraling thoughts. For a moment, she froze, caught between the weight of her inner world and the sudden reminder of the person lying in that bed.
Then, with practiced ease, she slipped on her mask. That bright, giggly smile she wore so often, polished to perfection, like a well-worn costume in a play she hadn't signed up for. It was her armor—cheerfulness used as a shield against things she couldn't control. Without letting her hesitation show, she rose lightly from the creaky wooden chair she had sat in for hours, her muscles stiff but disciplined after long practice in stillness.
With a gentle nudge of her foot, she rolled a silver tray forward. On it sat a colorful arrangement of comfort—carefully sliced fruit glowing with freshness, a dainty plate of delicate pastries dusted in a fine snowfall of powdered sugar, and a large mug of chocolate tea. The rich scent of cocoa and cinnamon wafted into the air, blending with the faint notes of vanilla that lingered on Maggie's skin. The tray was more than just food—it was a silent reassurance, a quiet declaration that care still existed in the world, no matter how frayed everything felt.
Maggie's movements were soft and measured. She kept her smile bright, even though her heart still trembled from the weight of the previous night—the memory of Melinda's screams, the way her body had gone limp, the panicked call for help that had barely made it through her own tears. She couldn't afford to show that fear now. Not when Melinda needed her to be something stable. Something solid.
She crouched beside the bed, hands poised as if ready to catch something fragile.
Melinda, meanwhile, was clawing her way up from a deep, oppressive fog. A dull, rhythmic throbbing pulsed behind her eyes, as if someone had taken a hammer to the inside of her skull and forgotten to stop. Her body felt foreign, heavy, every limb an effort to move. She existed in fragments—half-dream, half-memory—as her mind drifted aimlessly, unsure if it should hold on or let go.
How long have I been asleep? the question echoed distantly, not quite reaching the surface of her lips. Her thoughts were slow, reluctant things, dragging themselves forward like tired travelers in sand.
She blinked, once, twice, her lashes fluttering like leaves caught in a weak breeze, and turned her head slightly. The pillow beneath her cheek was surprisingly soft—luxurious, even. Not at all what she remembered. Not the scratchy sheets or the stale air of the motel room where she'd last felt awake. This place… this bed… was something else entirely.
A gentle hand pressed against her back. Steady. Warm. A subtle weight that helped anchor her as she slowly, painfully, pushed herself upright. The effort was monumental, her muscles protesting every inch. Her breath caught in her throat as she finally leaned against the adjusted pillows, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
Then, the room came into view.
It was huge. Too bright. A flood of cheerful pink washed over her bleary vision, loud and disorienting. The walls were painted in soft pastels that might have felt comforting on another day, but now felt like a surreal dreamscape. Every corner was crowded with plush animals—bears, unicorns, dragons—spilling out of wicker baskets and lined up neatly on shelves. Fantasy creatures stared down at her from glossy, framed prints, their cartoonish eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. It was a room meant to cradle a child's dreams, to protect them from the world's crueler truths. And yet, here she was, a teenage girl waking up from a nightmare, feeling like an intruder in someone else's fairytale.
Her eyes, still slow to focus, finally landed on Maggie.
She was kneeling beside the bed, her face lit with that trademark smile—soft, open, impossibly kind—but beneath it, Melinda saw the tension. The tightness at the corners of her mouth. The too-careful way she adjusted the pillows. The subtle tremble in her fingers as she smoothed the sheets. Maggie was holding herself together like glass just before it shatters.
And somehow, even in her groggy haze, Melinda knew.
She wasn't just recovering from a spell gone wrong.
She was waking up in the arms of someone who had nearly lost her.
"You're finally up?" Maggie said gently, her voice laced with a deliberately cheerful lilt, each syllable carefully chosen to sound light, effortless—even though nothing about this moment felt natural. It was a practiced tone, one she often used when trying to convince both herself and others that everything was fine. Normal. Safe.
But it wasn't.
Still, she smiled through it, turning her attention back to the small silver tray she had rolled closer to the bedside. The tray was modest but elegant, polished to a soft gleam, and on it sat a carefully prepared arrangement of comfort and warmth. She reached for the teapot first, her fingers steady, though a faint tremor lingered in her wrist—one she tried to suppress with practiced control.
Steam curled upward as she slowly poured a generous cup of thick, chocolate tea. The scent was rich and soothing, notes of roasted cacao and cinnamon blending with the warmth of the room. The dark liquid swirled gracefully in the delicate, cream-colored porcelain cup, the kind with tiny rose vines etched along the rim. Maggie's every motion was deliberate—methodical, almost—each one an act of care, of grounding herself through the familiar rhythm of small kindnesses.
She didn't look up as she asked, "Want some sugar in it?"
Just then, a voice—soft, strained, and dry—broke the quiet.
"How long was I out?" Melinda's question came out more as a croak than speech, her throat rough with the residue of sleep and disuse. Her words were sluggish, as though they had to push through thick cotton just to make it to her lips. Her tongue felt clumsy in her mouth, heavy like it didn't belong to her, and she winced slightly at the sound of her own voice.
Maggie didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on the tray, using the excuse of focus to buy herself a few seconds—time to temper her expression, time to soften the weight she felt pressing against her chest. When she did respond, her tone was light, airy, carefully composed.
"Oh, not too long," she said, with a little shrug that gave away nothing.
She busied herself then, organizing the rest of the tray like it was the most important task in the world. With meticulous care, she placed a set of dainty, crumbly biscuits—shortbread, honey-spiced, lemon-dusted—next to a cluster of miniature cakes, each one topped with impossibly delicate sugar flowers. The cakes looked like they belonged in a fairytale bakery. Brightly frosted cookies, shaped like stars and moons, formed a whimsical ring around the treats, and Maggie took a breath before setting the plate down beside the teacup.
She could feel Melinda watching her now, probably trying to piece together what had happened, where she was, what she'd been through. But Maggie kept her eyes down, knowing full well that if she let their gazes meet too soon, all the emotions she was holding back might come rushing out.
She wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
"Maggie," Melinda called softly, her voice still heavy with the remnants of sleep but now tinged with a faint thread of amusement. She arched a brow, slow and deliberate, a questioning gesture as she watched her friend's meticulous but slightly obsessive attention to the tray of sweets.
For a moment, Maggie seemed utterly absorbed in her task, her fingers adjusting a cookie here, straightening a miniature cake there, her entire being poured into the act of presentation. It took a few seconds for Melinda's voice to fully register.
"Huh?" Maggie finally responded, blinking as she tore her gaze away from the small, colorful mountain she had built. Her eyes, momentarily blank with distraction, refocused on Melinda's face, the confusion evident before the implied question finally clicked into place.
"That's…" Melinda began, pausing to clear the lingering hoarseness from her throat, "that's a bit much, don't you think?"
Her voice was gentle, teasing, but laced with genuine surprise as her gaze roamed over the towering assortment of pastries, cookies, and sweets. The tray looked almost comically overloaded, the precarious stack threatening to collapse under its own cheerful abundance. Even in her still-foggy state, Melinda could recognize the almost desperate care behind it—the silent message hidden in every carefully placed treat.
Maggie blinked again, following her friend's gaze, and then color rushed into her cheeks, spreading fast across her face like a rising tide. She let out a small, sheepish laugh, the sound high and embarrassed, and quickly dropped her hands to her sides as if just realizing how absurd the situation must look.
"Oh! Oh, dear! My fault!" she exclaimed, a hand flying instinctively to her flushed cheek as if to physically cool her embarrassment. The bright, nervous energy she'd been suppressing burst out all at once, making her movements suddenly quick and clumsy.
In her flustered rush to salvage the moment, Maggie grabbed the delicate porcelain teacup filled with steaming chocolate tea, lifting it a little too hastily from the tray. The rich, dark liquid swirled dangerously close to the rim, a few drops already tipping over the edge as her hand wobbled.
Melinda, despite the lingering haze in her mind and the soreness threading through her body, reacted with surprising swiftness. Her hand shot out instinctively, steady and sure, catching Maggie's wrist with a firm but gentle grip just in time.
The cup stabilized, the near disaster averted by mere inches.
For a heartbeat, the two girls froze there—Maggie's wide, embarrassed eyes meeting Melinda's steady, faintly amused gaze. The connection was brief but grounding, a silent exchange of emotion more potent than any hurried apology could convey.
Then, slowly, Melinda guided the cup toward the bedside table, setting it down with careful precision. Only when the porcelain clinked softly against the wood did Maggie finally exhale, the tension leaking out of her in a relieved sigh.
"Maybe… just the tea for now," Melinda murmured, a small, wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Maggie gave a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. "Right. Just the tea. Got it."
But the truth hung between them unspoken: Maggie's nervous energy wasn't really about the sweets, or the tea, or even the room. It was about fear. About guilt. About the desperate, almost frantic need to make things feel safe and normal again, even if only for a few moments longer.
And Melinda understood that more than she could say.
"Chocolate?" Melinda murmured, her voice still husky with the remnants of sleep as she lifted the delicate porcelain cup to her lips.
The rich, comforting aroma of the dark tea enveloped her senses, warm and familiar, cutting through the lingering fog that clung stubbornly to her mind. She took a cautious, tentative sip, letting the heat seep into her, the bittersweet flavor coating her tongue. It was thick, velvety, and carried a faint hint of spice—soothing and invigorating all at once, a welcome change from the stale dryness that had filled her mouth since waking.
"Special chocolate tea!" Maggie announced with a bright, almost triumphant lilt to her voice, the kind of bubbly enthusiasm that tried just a little too hard to sound effortless.
She bounced lightly on her heels, her hands fiddling with the edge of the tray as if needing something to do, her energy spilling out in nervous, twitchy bursts. Her eyes sparkled with a familiar, childlike pride. "It's my mom's super-duper secret recipe! She says it's the best thing for restoring your magic quicker, you know… after, um… magical mishaps."
There was an awkward little pause at the end of her sentence, the words trailing off with a sheepish grin, as if acknowledging the fragile nature of the situation without drawing too much attention to it.
Maggie leaned forward carefully, her movements a little more cautious now, and placed the overflowing plate of snacks gently onto Melinda's lap. Her smile widened, bright and hopeful, a silent plea wrapped in cheerful presentation—please feel better, please be okay.
Melinda blinked slowly, letting her gaze drift down to the plate resting against the soft blanket covering her legs.
"And these…" she said, her voice lifting slightly with curiosity as her fingers brushed over the edge of the floral-patterned plate, "these delightful-looking biscuits?"
Her tone was lighter now, teasing almost, but the weariness still lurked underneath. She took a moment to truly take in the sight before her—an artful display of golden-brown treasures: delicate shortbread cookies dusted with fine, crystalline sugar, crisp almond biscotti that gleamed faintly with a glaze, and soft, pillowy cookies studded with colorful, jewel-like sprinkles. Each piece looked carefully selected, placed just so, as if the arrangement itself could help piece her back together.
Maggie chuckled a little too quickly, the sound bright but brittle, cracking slightly at the edges.
"Oh, those?" she said, brushing an imaginary crumb from the air. "Just… just regular biscuits from that high-end grocery store downtown."
She gave a casual shrug, but it was too loose, too rehearsed. "You know, the one with all the fancy imported stuff? They're my mom's absolute favorite."
Her voice faltered slightly at the tail end of her sentence, the forced cheerfulness slipping, the careful mask slipping just enough to reveal the fleeting shadow that flickered across her features. For the briefest moment, Maggie's spirit dimmed, the ever-present buoyancy weighed down by something heavier, unspoken.
Melinda caught it—the way Maggie's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the tray, the way her gaze darted briefly to the floor before snapping back up with an even brighter, more determined smile.
Neither of them mentioned it.
Instead, Melinda took another slow sip of her tea, letting the warm, bittersweet liquid anchor her back to the present, offering a fragile bridge between the lingering aches of the past and the uncertain hopefulness of now.
"I see," Melinda murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, soft with empathy and laced with a quiet sadness.
Her eyes lingered on Maggie for a moment longer, no longer just seeing her friend in the literal sense, but really seeing her. There was something different in the way Maggie moved now—something too careful, too measured, as if each gesture was rehearsed or weighed down by invisible strings. Her hands, once so steady and precise, trembled faintly as they fidgeted along the polished edge of the silver tray.
That subtle tremor struck Melinda like a quiet revelation.
Maggie was nervous. Not the flustered, excitable kind of nervous she often displayed when talking too fast or stumbling over her words—but a deeper, quieter dread. A fragile, vulnerable fear tucked behind her practiced smiles and bouncy voice. And suddenly, with startling clarity, Melinda understood.
Maggie was blaming herself.
Again.
She always did. It was written in the tightness of her jaw, in the way her shoulders hunched forward as if shrinking beneath an unseen weight, and in the silent apology that shimmered in her eyes every time she looked at Melinda.
"Maggie," Melinda said gently, her tone like warm silk—low, calm, steady. A voice designed to comfort, to anchor. Her words slipped softly into the quiet tension between them, like balm on a wound no one wanted to acknowledge. "You know, deep down, that this… this wasn't your fault, right?"
For a moment, her gaze dropped—inevitably, unwillingly—toward the empty sleeve of her jacket.
A breath caught in her throat. The fabric lay folded, flat and still against her side, as if mocking the absence beneath it. A phantom sensation pulsed through her, the strange, cold echo of something that had once been a part of her body. Pain, not just physical but emotional, rose and curled in her chest like smoke.
Still, she pushed through it, lifting her eyes once more to meet Maggie's.
But Maggie had already looked away.
Her face, usually so expressive, so animated with emotion, had gone strangely still. She stared downward with unnatural focus, as if the pristine white of her loafers held the answers to a question she was too afraid to ask. The tips of her shoes tapped against one another, slow and rhythmic, like a ticking clock counting down to something unspoken.
Melinda recognized the pattern immediately.
It was a sign—Maggie's unconscious ritual when her thoughts grew too heavy, when she was overwhelmed but trying to appear composed.
The once-cheerful pink of the room, painted in warm tones and soft pastels, seemed to pale slightly under the weight of their shared silence. It felt too bright now, too artificial in contrast to the rawness between them. The air hung still, dense with things unsaid.
Melinda didn't reach out—not yet. She knew Maggie too well.
Instead, she waited.
Waited for her to look up.
Waited for the moment she would finally let her walls crack, even if just for a second.
"Maggie, I'm serious," Melinda said, her voice steady, though softened by a tenderness that came only from deep, shared pain. Her eyes didn't waver as she leaned slightly forward, grounding the weight of her words with a sincerity that cut through the fragile air between them. "You don't have to carry this burden alone. You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault—none of it."
Each word was carefully chosen, wrapped in warmth and conviction. She wasn't just speaking to reassure—she was reaching, trying to pull Maggie back from the edge of that all-too-familiar abyss of guilt she'd seen her teeter on before.
Maggie opened her mouth to reply, but the words didn't come.
"But I—" she started, her voice trembling, breaking at the edges like cracked porcelain. The sentence hung unfinished in the air, suspended in the space between pain and admission. Her throat tightened, constricted by the raw emotion swelling inside her, and her lips quivered as her breath hitched.
Her eyes, wide and glistening, welled with tears she hadn't meant to show. It was as though all the effort she had put into holding herself together—the forced smiles, the bright voice, the perfectly arranged biscuits—was unraveling in real time.
Her carefully maintained mask of lighthearted composure began to crumble, cracking under the weight of everything she hadn't said, everything she'd kept buried under cheerful distractions and sugar-coated deflections.
And Melinda saw it.
All of it.
But before Maggie could speak again—before she could give voice to the tidal wave of remorse threatening to pull her under—the moment was abruptly, violently torn apart.
The door to the room flew open with a sudden, jarring bang, its hinges groaning under the force as it slammed against the wall.
The sharp, startling crack of wood against plaster echoed like a gunshot in the small, otherwise quiet space, sending a jolt of shock through both women.
Maggie flinched visibly, her shoulders snapping upright, her breath catching. Melinda's head turned sharply toward the door, instinct and tension coiling in her spine like a spring.
In that instant, whatever delicate thread of honesty had begun to form between them was severed.
And just like that, the truth Maggie had been on the verge of admitting slipped back into silence.
******
Notes:"No normals hooking" is a witching world slang term meaning "avoid long-term romantic or intimate relationships with non-magical individuals." It's less about actual hooks and more about preventing accidental magical side effects. Trust us on this one.