Out in the Dollhouse?

The morning sun poured through my bedroom window, turning the lace curtains into gold-dusted ghosts. My mother had been here earlier, as always, opening the windows to let in the light. She believed in soft mornings, in warm air and fresh flowers.

I believed in silence.

I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My hair was perfectly brushed, my dress neatly pressed—a picture of elegance. But I felt nothing like the girl in the glass.

Downstairs, my parents sat at the breakfast table, already deep in their world of quiet affections. My father sipped his coffee, the newspaper folded neatly beside him. My mother, dressed in pastels, reached for a bowl of strawberries, her every movement graceful.

“Lia, sweetheart,” my father said as I slid into my chair. “We were just talking about the gala this weekend. Everyone’s excited to see you.”

I stiffened. The gala. Another night of rehearsed smiles and hollow praise. Another night of people telling me how lovely I was, how poised, how perfect.

I swallowed the protest rising in my throat.

“Of course. I’ll be there.”

Mother beamed. “You always bring such light into a room, darling.”

I focused on the silver spoon in my hand, gripping it tight enough to turn my knuckles white. I wanted to tell them the truth—that I wasn’t light, that I was suffocating under their expectations—but I knew they wouldn’t hear me.

So, I just smiled.

The morning passed in a blur of routine. A piano lesson, a scheduled call with my mother’s friend’s daughter (who was “so accomplished for her age”), and an afternoon spent pretending to read while my mind wandered. I wondered what it would be like to live without the weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders.

Later that day, I met my friends at the café just outside town—a place that smelled like roasted coffee and cinnamon, where the furniture didn’t match and the walls were covered In Polaroids. It was messy, loud, and imperfect. It felt real.

Sienna was already at our usual table, stirring sugar into her espresso. “Lia, you look miserable,” she announced, her dark eyes narrowing.

I sighed, sliding into my seat. “I’m fine.”

Sienna rolled her eyes. “Lia, if you say you’re fine one more time, I swear—”

“She’s lying,” Elias cut in, sliding into the seat beside me.

I blinked. He didn’t usually meet us here. But today, he did. Maybe because he knew. Maybe because he always knew.

Nico, sitting across from me, lazily flipped through a sketchbook without looking up. “It’s her parents again,” he muttered.

I pushed my untouched drink away. “They want me at the gala this weekend.”

Sienna snorted. “Of course they do. Can’t have their perfect daughter missing from the display.”

I winced. The words shouldn’t have hurt. But they did.

Elias leaned back in his chair, watching me. “So don’t go.”

I looked at him, startled. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I hesitated. Disappointment. Disapproval. The soft weight of their love, pressing down until I couldn’t breathe.

“I just can’t,” I whispered.

Sienna scoffed, tossing her spoon onto the table with a clatter. “You’re acting like skipping one party is going to make the world end.”

“You don’t understand.” My voice was quiet, but the words felt sharp in my throat.

“Then make us understand.” Elias’s gaze didn’t waver.

I wanted to. I wanted to tell them how every moment of my life was planned, how every step was carefully chosen for me. How my parents didn’t see me—they saw the version of me they wanted. And if I didn’t fit, I felt like I might disappear.

But I couldn’t say any of that.

So, I just shook my head.

Elias sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “One day, Lia, you’re going to have to choose yourself.”

I exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

He watched me for a long moment before finally turning back to his coffee. The conversation shifted to something else, but the weight of his words stayed with me.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe one day, I would choose myself.

But not today.

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