I tugged at the collar of the stupid suit for what had to be the fiftieth time. It was itchy, tight, and made me feel like I was suffocating. I wasn’t even sure if it was the suit or just me.

The restaurant was way too nice — all white tablecloths, candles, and those stupid tiny glasses of water that made me feel like a giant holding them. The kind of place where you feel like everyone’s judging you the second you walk in.

Ben, of course, thought it was hilarious. He kept adjusting his tie like he was some big-shot businessman, smirking at me every time I groaned.

"Come on, Sab," he leaned in, whispering dramatically, "we look sick. Like, we could totally crash a wedding after this."

I wanted to tell him to shut up, but I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t even want to be here. Family dinners were hard enough when they were at home, where I could hide in my room if it got too much. Out here, in public, I felt like a walking mistake. Like I didn’t belong.

Mike and Jen looked nice. They looked like a family. Meanwhile, I looked like the awkward extra shoved into their photo. People were probably wondering why I was even with them — maybe they thought I was a friend, or some charity case they were treating for the night. I didn’t look like them, didn’t sound like them, didn’t feel like them.

I felt like an outsider at their table. Like I was intruding on their real family. The one I didn’t fit into, no matter how much they insisted I did.

My chest felt tight. The thought sat heavy in my throat, and I swallowed hard, trying to push it down. It didn’t work.

Ben nudged me with his elbow. "Dude, stop looking like you’re at your own funeral. We’re wearing suits. This is, like, peak sibling bonding."

I almost laughed at that — almost. It came out as more of a breath through my nose. He noticed anyway, looking stupidly proud of himself.