You wake to a gentle rattle—your breath comes soft and uneven. You stretch—but your limbs feel oddly plush. You fling off the covers and stumble toward the mirror.

Red yarn locks tumble across your shoulders. A triangular orange nose stares back. One blue button for an eye.

You’re… Ragatha.

Fabric softens your steps as you examine your frilly dress, patch‑work seams, and black‑square “shoes.” Your reflection looks back with stitched surprise. You swallow hard.

A sudden knock at the door.

“Hey, you in there? You okay?”

Your roommate steps in—and stops dead.

They stare at you like you’re a puppet come to life.

You force a smile—a little too stitched‑on. Ragatha’s bright, optimistic voice quivers. “Um—hi.”

Your voice is lighter, cuter, and carries that gentle hopefulness she uses to calm herself (and others) in the Circus.

Your roommate blinks.

“Are you cosplaying? Or did you… turn into a doll?”

You don’t have an answer—except that you are Ragatha now. You feel her kindness, her resilience when things get messy. But you also feel the weight of the patch‑work, the fear hiding beneath that forced cheer (especially of centipedes) .

They clear their throat, voice shaky. “…Okay. Do you want help? Or… tea?”

You blink, blinking back that sweet, slightly weary optimism.

“Tea sounds nice...”

Because even stitched‑together, optimistically hopeful—you’re still trying to hold it together.