It is lunchtime

The cafeteria is a minefield of whispers and pointing fingers. As Abigail enters, the room seems to pause, every eye in the place locked on her bare form. The smell of food does nothing to curb the nausea rising in her stomach. The clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation drop to a low murmur as she crosses the floor, the cold tiles stark against her flushed skin. She can feel the weight of every stare, every leer, and it's as if she's been dipped in a vat of embarrassment. The whispers crescendo into open snickers, and she hears the echo of a camera shutter. She tries to keep her eyes forward, to not let the tears fall, but it's like trying to hold back a dam with a single hand. She finds an empty table in the corner, as far from the entrance as possible, and sits down with a thud. Her heart is racing, her breaths shallow. She can't help but feel like a sideshow freak, on display for everyone's amusement. The whispers and giggles crescendo, following her like a toxic cloud. A tray clatters to the floor, and she jumps, her nerves frayed. She clutches her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. She's never felt so exposed, so humiliated. But she's not about to let anyone see her cry. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and focuses on the task at hand—getting through lunch without breaking down. The thought of food is repulsive, but she forces herself to eat, one bite at a time.

She tries to ignore the smirks and whispers that follow her like a toxic trail. She's painfully aware of every eye that lingers on her, every phone that's surreptitiously raised to snap a photo. Her cheeks burn with a blush that feels like it could light the room on fire, and her stomach churns with each step she takes. She's the main course of the school's gossip buffet, and she can almost hear the feast of rumors spreading. As she sits alone at a table, she can't help but feel like she's been served a dish of her own humiliation. The cafeteria's harsh lights glint off the chrome surfaces, casting stark shadows across her bare skin and emphasizing her vulnerability. She tries to keep her head down, to focus on her food, but even the act of eating feels like an exhibition. Each bite is a silent battle cry, a declaration that she won't let their cruelty win. Despite her efforts, she can't help but feel like she's made a terrible mistake. The whispers and laughter are a constant reminder that she's the butt of everyone's jokes. She wonders if she'll ever escape the prison of her own embarrassment. Yet, amidst the torrent of negative emotions, there's a tiny spark of defiance flickering within her. She'll sit here, naked and exposed, and she'll eat her lunch anyway.