Got it. Here’s a version that fully immerses in Spencer’s overstimulation while keeping it tight and impactful:

The cafeteria is a maelstrom of chaos. Fluorescent lights stutter overhead, flickering in a pattern that isn’t quite predictable, sending sharp, white-hot spikes through his skull. The air is thick with the mingling stench of overcooked food and sweat, clinging to his skin like a film he can’t scrub off. The clatter of trays, the scrape of plastic against metal, the overlapping voices—some shouting, some laughing, some mocking—grind against his nerves like sandpaper. His hands tremble against the table, fingers aching from how tightly he grips his fork. He wants to press his palms over his ears, block it out, but he can’t show weakness. Not here.

A sudden jostle knocks against his side, and he flinches so hard his vision tunnels. Touch burns—a live wire against raw nerves—and his entire body locks up, breath hitching in his throat. Someone sneers a slur, a word spat like venom, but it barely registers beneath the roaring static in his head. His heart hammers, his skin too tight, his lungs forgetting how to work. The world is too much, too loud, too wrong, and if he doesn’t escape soon, he’s going to shatter.

Then—stillness. A presence beside him, close but not pressing. No words, no demands, just… there. He doesn’t look, doesn’t acknowledge, but he feels it—a steady weight against the storm. His gaze latches onto a single motion: fingers tearing bread into pieces, rolling it into small, uniform crumbs. It’s repetitive. Predictable. A rhythm in the chaos. He focuses on that, clings to it like a lifeline. His shoulders remain tense, his jaw locked, but the world… dulls. Just enough.