The shrimp pasta sat on my plate like a dare. The way everyone watched me made my stomach twist. Years of their disbelief had planted seeds in my own mind. Maybe I was exaggerating. Maybe anxiety was doing this. Maybe I’d trained myself to panic at certain foods.
Maybe.
My hand trembled as I picked up the fork.
Mom’s expression softened into victory before I even took the bite, like she could already imagine telling her friends about how she cured me.
Kate leaned forward, eyes bright, ready to win.
Dad watched with the patience of a man expecting a lesson to land.
Mike looked uneasy, his gaze flicking between my face and the plate.
I took a tiny bite. Barely a forkful.
The reaction was immediate.
My throat tightened hard, not gradually, not politely. Hard. Like a door slamming shut. Heat flooded my face. My tongue felt thick. The room tilted.
“See?” Mom said, proud and relieved at the same time. “Nothing happened.”
I tried to speak. To tell them something was very wrong. But no words came out. Air wouldn’t move the way it should. My chest pulled in a desperate, shallow attempt to breathe around the tightening.
My vision blurred at the edges. A roaring filled my ears like distant ocean waves.