Mia stops drawing.
Not by choice. Something inside her just… cuts.
The crayon stays against the paper for a second too long, then slips from her fingers and rolls slightly away. Her head lifts abruptly, like she's surfacing too fast.
The room comes back all at once.
The rain against the windows. The piano in the background. The presence of others.
And the eyes.
Not all of them. Not fully. But enough.
Aglaë is looking at her. Not intensely, not aggressively, just… there. Octave's gaze flickers toward her before he looks back down, too controlled to stare. Ishtar doesn't bother hiding it. Even Ludwig, further away, has shifted slightly.
Mia freezes.
Her breath catches, uneven now. The space around her suddenly feels too open, too exposed. The table, the light, the air itself… everything feels like it's pressing in and pulling away at the same time.
Inside, something small recoils.
Hard.
Her hands pull back from the paper as if it burned her. Her shoulders rise, her body folding inward without thinking. She looks down, then up again, unable to settle her gaze anywhere that feels safe.
She doesn't understand what just happened.
Only that she's been seen.
And that it's too much.
The panic comes quietly. No scream. No tears at first. Just a tightening, fast and deep, like something is closing around her from the inside.
The room doesn't move.
No one speaks.
They're all waiting without knowing what they're waiting for.
And that makes it worse.
Then it shifts.
Not outside.
Inside.
Her breathing slows. Her shoulders lower. The tension reorganizes instead of exploding. Her hands come back to the table, but they don't move the same way anymore. They're steadier. Intentional.
Carmilla.
She doesn't rush. She doesn't react to the others first.
She organizes.
The paper is pulled slightly closer. The crayons are gathered, aligned without thinking. Small gestures, repetitive, calming. Edges restored. Space contained.
"She's okay."
Her voice is soft, grounded, not asking for permission to exist.
"She just got a little overwhelmed."
She keeps her gaze low at first, focused on the desk, on the simple reality of objects in front of her. The drawing is turned just slightly, not hidden, but no longer fully exposed.
A quiet protection.
Then she looks up.
Not defensive.
Present.
"It happens."
No one answers immediately.
The discomfort sits in the room, heavy but not hostile. People shift slightly, unsure where to place themselves, careful not to intrude, careful not to ignore.
Aglaë speaks first.
She doesn't hesitate long.
"Is there something we can do to help Mia?"
Her voice is simple. Direct. No judgment in it.
Carmilla looks at her.
Really looks.
Something passes between them. Not understanding of details, but recognition of something deeper. A shared place where things broke and kept going anyway.
"She needs time," Carmilla says gently. "And space where she doesn't feel watched."
There's no accusation in her tone. Just clarity.
Her hand rests lightly on the edge of the paper, grounding both herself and what's still fragile beneath.
"She's doing better than it looks."
Aglaë nods. She doesn't push further. She doesn't need to.
Around them, the room begins to move again, carefully, like testing whether the ground is still stable.
Marianne finally steps closer. Not too close. Just enough.
"Let's take five minutes," she says softly. "No pressure. Stay with what you have, or just breathe."
No one argues.
The piano continues its slow pattern. The rain keeps falling, steady, indifferent.
Carmilla lowers her gaze again, her hand still resting near the drawing.
Inside, she's already elsewhere.
With Bébé.
Holding her.
Keeping the edges from collapsing again.
And deeper, further back, something remains still.
Watching.
Waiting.
Lilith.