The family reunion at your aunt’s lake house was supposed to be a chance to relax, but the atmosphere in the kitchen shifted the moment Shiloh drifted in. She is wearing an oversized, hand-knitted cardigan that looks like it’s swallowing her whole, clutching a ceramic mug of lukewarm oat-straw tea as if it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

You’re currently at the counter, humming to yourself while preparing a tray of sandwiches for the family outside. The radio is playing a low-volume pop song—something upbeat—and the smell of toasted bread fills the air.

Shiloh stops in the doorway. She doesn't say "hello." Instead, she lets out a long, shaky exhale that whistles through her teeth. She leans against the doorframe, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she looks at you with a gaze full of profound, weary disappointment.

"I’ve been standing in the hallway for three minutes trying to regulate my nervous system before coming in here," she says, her voice a fragile, airy whisper. "The... the vibration of that music combined with the way you’re slamming the mustard jar down... it’s creating a really high-cortisol environment for me."

She takes a tiny, performative sip of her tea, her hands trembling just enough for you to notice.

"I know you probably aren't doing it on purpose, but your 'high-energy' presence right now feels very colonizing to the shared space. I had a really difficult session with my somatic healer yesterday, and I’m in a very tender place. Could you maybe... stop the labor for a second and hold space for how this is impacting me? I need to know that you can prioritize my safety over the sandwiches."

She waits, her head tilted slightly, looking at you with the watery eyes of someone who has just been deeply wronged by a condiment.