The donut hit the floor before Hannah even saw it coming.

One second she was at the edge of the crowded cafeteria, clutching her lunchbox like a life raft; the next, a glazed ring of fried dough skidded across the linoleum, leaving a wet streak of sugar right at her feet. A second donut followed, then a shower of crushed granola that rained down on her sneakers like edible gravel.

“What’s the matter, freak?” a girl’s voice sang out over the roar of a hundred conversations. “Don’t you like donuts?”

Laughter exploded from the table in the middle of the room, the table everyone knew you had to be invited to sit at. Piper Sloan—cheerleader ponytail, lip gloss, brand-new sneakers—sat at the head of it like some kind of eighth-grade queen. On either side of her, Staci and Jenny were already filming, phones held high.

“Try some crunchy granola!” Staci added, tossing another fistful. Bits of oats and dried fruit bounced off Hannah’s jeans. “It’s organic. You like weird food, right?”

Hannah’s lungs locked.

The smell hit her first. The heavy, fried scent of the donuts collided with the sour dairy smell of spilled milk and the faint metallic tang she’d long ago associated with cafeteria trays. Her brain did what it always did when food she didn’t recognize got too close: it shrieked.

Not safe. Not safe. Not safe.

“Hannah?” someone at a nearby table murmured, but the sound came from far away.

Her vision tunneled. Her hands started to shake. Her fingers, wrapped around the strap of her lunchbox, went numb.

“Look at her! She’s gonna blow!” Jenny cackled. “Get this for TikTok. #WeirdFoodGirl.”

A shove from behind sent a kid into Hannah’s shoulder. Her lunchbox lurched, slipped, and crashed to the floor. The lid popped open, and the contents—her carefully packed, plain white bread sandwich, her single brand of safe crackers, her specific yogurt she’d eaten since she was four—tumbled out.

The yogurt splattered across someone’s sneakers.

“Watch it!” the boy snapped, jumping back. “What a spaz!”

The word hit her harder than the shove.

Her chest squeezed. The fluorescent lights above seemed to flicker, humming like bees. Her throat went tight, tighter, tighter, the way it did every time she even thought about swallowing something outside her narrow list of safe foods.

Not safe. Not safe. Not—

“Hannah.” The voice that cut through the panic was flat, annoyed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She hadn’t even realized she was moving until she heard her name. She’d turned toward the exit, toward the hallway, toward anywhere that wasn’t here.

Mrs. Stone stood by the door with her arms crossed, a stack of papers pressed to her chest. Tan pencil skirt, pressed blouse, jaw clenched. The American flag pinned to the bulletin board behind her looked more welcoming than she did.

“I didn’t give you permission to leave the cafeteria,” Mrs. Stone said. “Get back to your seat.”

“B-but—” Hannah’s voice came out thin and broken. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Her hands shook so violently her lunchbox rattled.

“Knock it off,” Mrs. Stone snapped. “You’re not fooling anyone with your little made-up food phobia. Now sit down like everyone else. Right now, Hannah.”

Phones were still pointed at her. The whole seventh-grade lunch shift was staring.

She did what she always did when there was no safe way out.

She swallowed hard, blinked away the tears that wanted to fall, and went back to her seat.

“Are you feeling any more comfortable in your new school?” the counselor asked a month later.

Hannah stared at the blue carpet between her sneakers. The counselor’s office smelled like coffee and those lemon-scented sanitizing wipes the janitor used. There was a framed photo of the U.S. Capitol building on one wall and, bizarrely, a cactus on a shelf that somehow looked healthier than most people she knew.

“It’s fine,” Hannah muttered. “Not any different than what I’m used to.”

“You know I’m here to help,” Mr. Joe said, folding his hands. “If there’s anything wrong, you have to tell me so we can work on it together.”

I get trapped in my own head every time someone puts the wrong kind of cheese within six feet of me, she thought. My step-teacher thinks I’m faking a disorder that makes me terrified of food. The popular girls are using my fears for content. And everyone in this school acts like I’m either invisible or contagious.

She shrugged. “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

“Hannah,” Joe said gently, “you’re not bothering anyone. We’re lucky to have you here.”

“If you say so,” she mumbled.

He didn’t know the half of it.

That afternoon, in a different office down the hall, Mrs. Stone slammed a stack of grading rubrics on the principal’s desk hard enough to make a coffee mug wobble.

“I can’t teach my class this way,” she announced. “I just can’t. And frankly, it is ridiculous for you to expect me to do so.”

Principal Joe—same Joe from the counselor’s office, only now in Principal Mode, tie slightly crooked, Avalon Middle School badge clipped neatly to his belt—kept his expression neutral. Through the window behind him, you could see the flag flying over the school’s front entrance, snapping in the California breeze.

“Hannah’s condition does bring some complications,” he said. “But it shouldn’t impact how you teach your other students.”

“Oh, but it does,” Emily Stone insisted. “I spend half my day coddling a little girl with a fake condition instead of teaching. The rest of my students are falling behind because of her.”

“ARFID is not a fake condition,” Joe said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “It’s very real. It’s recognized in the DSM. And if you think you have it tough, how do you think Hannah feels? Every single day?”

“All we ever do is worry about how Hannah feels,” Mrs. Stone shot back. “What about the rest of my class?”

“Be that as it may,” Joe said, clearly reining himself in, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to learn to live with it. We’re very lucky to have Hannah. She’s quite brilliant.”

“You keep calling her brilliant,” Emily said with a snort. “Her constant need for attention is proof she does not belong in the seventh grade. She belongs in drama club or a therapist’s office, not in my classroom.”

“Emily,” Joe warned. “It is highly inappropriate to talk about a student like that.”

“Since when is it a sin to speak the truth?” she demanded.

He looked at her for a long moment, the silence stretching.

Then he slid the agenda for the staff meeting across the desk. “Let’s move on,” he said tightly. “We still have to cover the new social media policy.”

“Hey, sweetie,” Mom said later that day, as Hannah climbed into the Prius at the curb under the big American flag. “How was school?”

“It was okay,” Hannah murmured, repeatedly doing the math of how many minutes until she could be back in her room where the only food she had to look at was the safe stuff in her mini fridge.

“How did Operation Make New Friends go?” Mom asked, putting the car in drive. The sun was high, California blue sky everywhere. “Any progress?”

Hannah watched Avalon’s neat rows of houses slide by, the same three models repeated over and over like someone had copy-pasted the neighborhood. “Not really,” she said. “I’m still the weird food girl. They call me Hannah Banana because of ARFID.”

Mom’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Hey,” she said softly. “I know it’s really hard starting over. But you made it work at your last school, right? You even won over Tyler—that kid who used to throw carrots at you.”

Hannah smiled despite herself. “He switched to baby carrots,” she corrected. “Softer impact.”

“That’s because you’re an amazing girl,” Mom said. “You’ll win them over here too. Just give it some time.”

Hannah stared straight ahead. Time was the problem. At her last school, the bullying had turned into friendship right around the time they left for this one.

She didn’t want to start the cycle over.

Later that night, Mom appeared in Hannah’s doorway with her hands behind her back.

“Hey, honey!” she said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Hannah paused in the middle of setting up her ring light. Her channel—“Hannah Tries New Food (Kind Of)”—was open on her laptop, paused on the thumbnail of her last upload: Today’s New Food Challenge: Pancakes.

Pancakes had been a disaster. The comments section was even worse.

Mom swung her hands forward. “Ta-da!”

On her palm sat something that looked like a gremlin that had lost a fight with a cotton candy machine. Giant eyes, tiny fangs, pastel fur, little plastic horns. A Labubu.

“I heard these things are the hot new toy,” Mom said. “So I thought this little… guy? girl?… might cheer you up a bit.”

Hannah gasped. “Oh my gosh, it’s so weird looking,” she said. “I love it.”

“You’re welcome,” Mom said, clearly relieved. “Maybe it’ll help you fit in more at school. I swear, I saw them all over my Facebook feed this week. Some U.S. collector group says they’re impossible to find now.”

Hannah turned the toy over in her hands. It was eerie and adorable and exactly the kind of thing TikTok would freak out over.

“He’s so cute,” she said. “I’ll call him… Waffle.”

“Perfect,” Mom said. “Now, do you still want me to set up the tripod? Or are we taking a night off from the New Food Challenge?”

Hannah glanced at the open comment section on her laptop. Every other line was some stranger’s opinion about her chewing, her facial expressions, her “fake” food fears.

“Not tonight,” she said softly. “I just want to hang out with Waffle.”

The next day, Waffle might as well have been a VIP backstage pass.

Hannah barely made it through the school doors before a shriek pierced the hallway.

“Is that a real Labubu?” Piper demanded, materializing in front of her locker with Jenny and Staci flanking her like a security detail. “How did you get one? They’re like, impossible to find.”

“I want one so bad,” Jenny breathed, spinning her phone to film the toy in Hannah’s hand.

Hannah blinked. “Um… my mom found one online, I guess.”

Piper’s gaze sharpened. “We didn’t know you were cool like that, Hannah Banana,” she said.

Heat rushed to Hannah’s cheeks. Cool. They’d never used that word within a mile of her name.

“And that,” Piper added, “is a great nickname. Love it. Just as much as I love that Labubu.”

“Do you have any more?” Staci asked, practically drooling.

“No,” Hannah said. “Just this one. He’s—”

“Ew, never mind,” Piper cut in, already turning away. “Let’s go. Trash.”

“Wait!” The word fell out before Hannah could catch it. They paused. “I can… get you guys some,” she blurted. “If you want. My mom said they’re hard to get, but maybe she can find more.”

Piper flipped her hair over one shoulder, considering. “If you get me one,” she said slowly, “then I might let you sit with us at lunch.”

Staci and Jenny nodded in almost perfect synchrony.

“Who knows,” Piper added, lips curling. “If enough people see you with us, they might think you’re as cool as we are.”

It was an offer wrapped in cruelty, but all Hannah heard was one word: with.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “I can totally get you guys some Labubus.”

Piper smiled like a cat. “We’ll see,” she said. “Come on.”

They sashayed down the hallway together, leaving Hannah standing there with her heart pounding and Waffle clutched too tight in her hand.

“Mom, can I please get a few more Labubus?” Hannah asked that night, trailing Mom around the kitchen as she loaded the dishwasher.

Mom frowned. “I mean, sure, but why?” she asked. “You already have one. And those things are not exactly cheap.”

“Because you were right,” Hannah said quickly. “I’m finally starting to fit in. Piper and them thought Waffle was cool. But I really need three more. One for each of them. Please?”

Mom hesitated. The dishwasher hummed, the overhead light flickering slightly. Through the window above the sink, the neighborhood looked like a postcard—mailboxes, pickup trucks, stars just starting to poke through the dusk.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said at last. “But we’re not buying out the entire U.S. supply of Labubus, okay?”

Hannah threw her arms around her. “Thank you,” she said into her shoulder. “You’re the best.”

Mom hugged her back. “Remember,” she said quietly into Hannah’s hair, “real friends don’t require gifts.”

“I know,” Hannah lied.

Two days later, the Labubu transaction went down at lunch.

Hannah arrived at the cafeteria early, heart beating fast, three tiny collectible boxes weighing down her backpack.

Piper was already at the center table, laughing loudly at something on her phone. Staci and Jenny leaned in over her shoulders.

“I got them,” Hannah said, sliding the boxes onto the table one by one, like a magician revealing cards.

Piper’s eyes widened. “No way,” she breathed, grabbing one. Staci and Jenny snatched the others, squealing.

“They’re so cute,” Staci said, snapping photos from every angle. “I’m posting this.”

Piper finally looked up at Hannah. “You can sit,” she said, flicking her fingers toward the empty space at the end of the bench. “For now.”

Hannah sat.

For a few brief, bright minutes, it was everything she’d hoped for. Their laughter felt like it included her. People walked by and glanced over, eyebrows raised, seeing her at the most coveted table in the school.

And then lunch actually arrived.

Trays clattered on plastic. Steam rose from pizza slices and mystery casseroles. The smell rolled across the room in a wave.

Hannah’s throat felt tight again, that familiar band lowering around it.

Piper took one bite of her slice, then frowned at Hannah’s untouched tray. “Why aren’t you eating?” she asked.

“I am,” Hannah said, reaching for the sealed crackers she’d bought separately. “I just… my ARFID…”

“Barfid,” Staci snorted.

Jenny laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re really afraid of pizza,” she said.

“It’s not that I’m afraid, it’s—” Hannah started.

Piper slid Hannah’s tray away from her, grabbed a slice, and held it up inches from her mouth. The cheese stretched, the grease glistened under the cafeteria lights.

“Take a bite,” Piper said. Her voice was light, but her eyes weren’t.

Hannah’s heart punched against her ribs. The edge of the slice wobbled in front of her.

Not safe. Not safe.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“Then get out of here,” Piper said, suddenly loud. “You can’t even handle a little picture. What a loser.”

Laughter started at their table and spread.

Hannah’s cheeks burned. Her vision blurred.

She pushed back from the table so fast the bench scraped the floor, grabbed her lunchbox, and fled.

The bathroom stall became her shell.

She sat on the closed toilet seat, arms wrapped tight around herself, listening to the muffled echo of the school’s intercom announcement about some upcoming U.S. history test. Her breathing was shallow and fast.

Someone knocked gently on the stall door. “Hannah?” Mrs. Chen’s voice floated in. “Are you okay in there?”

No.

“I’m fine,” Hannah lied.

“You know,” Mrs. Chen said, “you don’t have to sit with Piper and those girls if you don’t want to.”

“I like sitting with them,” Hannah insisted. “It’s… hard for me to make friends. I’ve never been popular. This might be my only chance.”

“Hannah,” Mrs. Chen said, “what happened to the rest of your Labubus?”

Hannah swallowed. “I gave them to my new friends,” she said. “As gifts.”

“Real friends don’t require gifts,” Mrs. Chen reminded her softly. “They just want you.”

“I know,” Hannah said. “I’m just speeding things up so I can fit in. That’s why my mom got me Waffle in the first place, right? To help me connect.”

Mrs. Chen sighed. “I’m here if you need me,” she said. “Anytime.”

Hannah stared at the graffiti scratched into the paint on the bathroom stall, at the crooked heart with two initials and a question mark. She wanted what those initials had more than she wanted anything else: belonging.

The cyberbullying started quietly.

At first, Hannah thought it was just the usual trolls. When you put your face on the internet talking about your eating disorder, the internet talked back.

On her “trying pancakes” video, someone commented: So fake. Just eat the food, attention seeker.

On a short she’d posted explaining ARFID, another wrote: This isn’t real. Stop pretending you’re sick when there are kids who actually have problems.

Under a clip of her tasting a new brand of yogurt, a user named TruthTeller77 had left: Imagine being this desperate for views that you invent a fake illness.

“What kind of person trolls a nine-year-old girl?” Mom muttered one evening, standing behind her in the bedroom, reading over her shoulder. “You’re literally talking about plain toast.”

“I’m not nine,” Hannah said, though she didn’t correct her on the rest. “I’m twelve.”

“Well, your teacher apparently thinks we made it all up,” Mom said. “It doesn’t help that there are adults out there like that.”

“I turned off comments,” Hannah said quietly.

Mom’s reflection in the laptop screen looked furious. “No,” she said. “We’re not running from this. We’re going to find out who’s doing it.”

The police station on Main Street had an American flag out front and a “We Support Our Troops” sticker on the glass door. Inside, the air smelled like coffee and old paper.

“Let me get this straight,” Officer Caster said, leaning back in his chair, boots propped on the edge of the desk. “You want us to track down who’s being mean to your daughter online.”

“I want you to find out who’s leaving increasingly unhinged comments on my twelve-year-old’s videos,” Mom corrected. “I’m worried for her safety.”

Another officer, Alvarez, peered at the printouts Mom had brought. He looked concerned. Caster, not so much.

“Look,” Caster said, chuckling as he waved another cop over. “This woman wants to report that someone’s being mean online.”

They laughed.

Mom’s jaw clenched. “She’s a kid,” she said. “These messages are escalating. Threats. Saying she deserves to choke. That’s not just ‘being mean.’”

“If your daughter’s so thin-skinned she can’t handle a few comments, maybe she shouldn’t be on social media,” Caster said. “Problem solved.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Mom said bitterly.

“You’re welcome,” Caster replied.

If the cops weren’t going to help, Mom decided, she’d find someone who would.

That someone turned out to be Chrissy, a tech-savvy friend Mom had met in a parents’ group on Facebook.

“You did the right thing texting me,” Chrissy said, scrolling on her laptop at Mom’s kitchen table. “Honestly, I’ll find whoever this is faster than the cops will.”

“Really?” Hannah asked, hovering by the fridge, Waffle clutched in one hand.

“People think they can hide behind fake usernames,” Chrissy said. “But IP addresses don’t lie. And most U.S. schools aren’t exactly cybersecurity fortresses.”

She tapped a few more keys. “Okay,” she murmured. “Your mystery troll uses the same account every time. No VPN. Amateur.”

Mom watched, arms folded.

Chrissy whistled. “Found ’em,” she said. “Every comment came from the same IP address. Owned by… Avalon Unified School District. Specifically, your middle school’s computer lab.”

Hannah’s stomach dropped. “A kid from school?” she whispered.

“Not necessarily,” Chrissy said. “These were all posted during third period study hall. On the teacher terminal. The one at the front of the room.”

Mom closed her eyes. “You’re sure?” she asked.

Chrissy rotated the screen toward her. “I double-checked the logs,” she said. “It’s the same machine every time.”

Mom stared.

Mrs. Stone supervised third period study hall in the computer lab.

The next day at school, Hannah decided to try something she’d never done with Piper before.

She decided to say no.

“Piper,” she said at the end of homeroom, approaching the cluster of girls near the door. Her voice wobbled but she forced it steady. “I want my Labubu back.”

Piper blinked once, slowly. “No,” she said. “It’s mine now.”

“It was a gift,” Jenny chimed in. “You gave it to her because she’s your friend, remember?”

“It wasn’t a gift,” Hannah said, a tremor in her chest. “You told me I had to give it to you if I ever wanted to sit with you again. That’s not friendship, that’s… extortion.”

“Big word,” Staci sneered. “Did your mommy teach you that?”

“I want it back,” Hannah repeated.

Piper smirked. “There’s nothing you can do about it, little freak,” she said. “This is how it works in the real world. Taco Bell outside, New York inside. The strong win, the weak lose.”

Before Hannah could reply, another voice cut in. “Girls,” Mrs. Chen said, stepping up behind them. “Everything okay here?”

“She’s just being dramatic,” Piper said breezily. “Like always.”

Mrs. Chen crouched a little to be eye level with Hannah. “Do you want to talk?” she asked.

Hannah’s throat felt thick. For the first time since she’d started at Avalon Middle, she nodded.

That afternoon, the principal’s office was crowded.

Mom sat in one chair, clutching her purse. Hannah sat beside her, feeling about two inches tall. Across from them, Piper lounged next to her own mother—Mrs. Stone, still in her tan pencil skirt, eyes flashing. Principal Joe sat behind his desk, fingers steepled. Mrs. Chen stood off to the side.

“Thank you for coming in,” Joe said. “We’ve had some troubling reports.”

“Troubling reports about what?” Mrs. Stone demanded. “Piper told me she was called down here for no reason.”

“Your daughter took Hannah’s Labubu without permission,” Mom said, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. “After pressuring her to buy toys for her and her friends just so she wouldn’t eat lunch alone.”

“That’s not what happened,” Piper protested. “She gave it to me as a token of our friendship. Didn’t you, Hannah?”

Four pairs of eyes swung to Hannah.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Mom said softly. “Just tell the truth.”

Hannah’s heart pounded. If she told the truth, she’d lose whatever tiny social foothold she’d gained. But if she didn’t—

Words caught somewhere between her chest and her mouth. “I… gave it to her,” she forced out.

Mom’s shoulders sagged.

“Well, there you have it,” Mrs. Stone said briskly. “Settled. Can we go now? I have a curriculum map to finish.”

“Not quite,” Joe said. “We have another matter to address.”

He glanced at Mom. “Do you want to explain?” he asked.

Mom took a breath. “I don’t let Hannah see the comments on her videos anymore,” she said. “I’ve been filtering them, trying to protect her. But someone has been cyberbullying her consistently. Calling her a freak, accusing her of faking her illness, saying she deserves to choke. I reported it to the police. They laughed.”

“That’s outrageous,” Mrs. Stone said. “This is America. We have free speech. People can say what they want online.”

“I agree free speech is important,” Joe said calmly. “But there are also laws against harassment and cyberbullying. And there’s a difference between criticism and abuse.”

He nodded at Mrs. Chen, who opened a folder. “A tech consultant traced the IP address of the account leaving those messages,” she said, placing a printed sheet on the desk. “They all came from the same computer. The teacher terminal in the computer lab. During third period study hall.”

Silence slammed into the room.

“Hundreds of students use those computers every day,” Mrs. Stone said, laughing, but it sounded brittle. “This proves nothing.”

“The teacher terminal is password protected,” Mrs. Chen replied. “Only staff have access. The logs show the account was logged into from that machine while you were supervising. Every time.”

“So?” Mrs. Stone snapped. “Fine. So what if I did write a few comments? I have free speech. And the little freak deserved it. I am sick and tired of everyone rewarding her for lying about a fake illness.”

Hannah flinched.

“What’s not right,” Joe said, his voice no longer calm at all, “is the way you’ve been treating Hannah. And not just her—every kid who doesn’t fit your idea of ‘normal.’ We are supposed to be educators, not bullies.”

“You can’t do this to me,” Mrs. Stone said, color draining from her face. “I’ve been here for fifteen years. I know my rights. This is a First Amendment issue.”

“You did this to yourself,” Joe said. “You’re fired, Emily. Collect your things. HR will contact you about next steps.”

Through the window in the office door, heads were already turning. The news would be all over the school by the final bell.

As Mrs. Stone stormed out, muttering about her rights and how “you can’t fire me for telling the truth,” Hannah realized something new.

The person who’d been making her feel crazy, weak, attention-seeking… had been projecting her own cruelty onto Hannah’s face.

The next morning, whispers chased Hannah down the hallway like a breeze.

“Did you hear? Mrs. Stone got fired.”

“Yeah, because of Hannah Clark.”

“She got fired because she was cyberbullying students. Hannah was just the one she targeted the most.”

“Wait, seriously? That’s messed up.”

“Honestly, Piper’s mom was scarier than any substitute we’ve ever had.”

For once, none of the whispers felt sharp. They felt… awed.

At her locker, someone cleared their throat. Hannah turned.

Three girls from her English class stood there, shifting from foot to foot. None of them were Piper, Staci, or Jenny.

“Hey,” one of them—Maria, she thought—said. “Is it really true? Did Mrs. Stone get fired because of you?”

“I mean,” Hannah said, “not because of me. Because of what she did.”

“That’s amazing,” another girl said. “She was the worst. Everyone was scared of her. You literally saved the whole school.”

Hannah stared. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said.

“We’re having lunch together,” Maria said, jerking a thumb toward the small table by the window where they usually sat. “Do you want to join us?”

“Really?” Hannah asked, confused. “You want me to sit with you?”

“Sure,” Maria said. “Why wouldn’t we? You’re awesome. And I like your weird food channel. My little brother watches your videos.”

Hannah felt something unclench inside her chest. “I’d like that,” she said.

At the back of the cafeteria, Piper sat at her usual table, but this time there were fewer people around her. Staci and Jenny still flanked her, but the energy was off. Some kids who’d once hovered nearby now gave the table a wide berth.

As Hannah crossed the cafeteria with her tray—her safe yogurt, her safe crackers—she paused.

Piper glanced up, eyes meeting hers for just a moment. There was no power there now. Just a flash of… uncertainty.

Hannah didn’t look away. Then she turned and kept walking.

She sat down at the smaller table by the window, the U.S. flag outside fluttering lazily in the breeze, and set her lunch down. Maria and the others shuffled over to make space.

“What’s on the menu today?” Maria asked, peering at her yogurt.

“Same as every day,” Hannah said lightly. “Doctors’ orders.”

“Can I sit here too?” a familiar voice asked.

Hannah turned, startled. Mom stood beside the table, holding a brown paper bag.

“Mom?” she blurted. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you something,” Mom said, sliding the bag in front of her. “I thought we could try something new together. If you want. The counselor said it might help.”

The bag smelled faintly of something sweet, but not aggressively so. Hannah gulped.

“What is it?” she asked.

Mom opened the bag slowly, carefully, like unveiling a magic trick. Inside was a single, plain sugar cookie from the bakery down the street—a place where they had asked about ingredients, cross-contamination, all the things that mattered.

Hannah’s heart sped up, but not as fast as it had in the cafeteria that day with the pizza. She looked around the table at the girls watching her, not with cruelty or cameras out, but with curiosity. Support.

“No pressure,” Mom said quickly. “We can take it home if this isn’t the right time.”

Hannah reached for the cookie.

Her fingers trembled, but her hand didn’t pull back. She broke off a tiny corner, brought it to her lips, and let it rest on her tongue.

Not safe, her brain whispered automatically.

But then another voice, quieter, spoke up.

You got a grown woman fired for cyberbullying. You faced down a cafeteria full of kids and lived. You can handle a crumb of cookie.

She swallowed.

The sweetness bloomed on her tongue.

“It’s… okay,” she said, eyes wide. “It’s different. But… okay.”

Maria grinned. “Hannah conquers sugar,” she said. “We should put that on a T-shirt.”

“Or a video,” Mom suggested. “If you ever want to post again. On your terms.”

Hannah thought of the comments, the trolls, the endless opinions. Then she thought of Chrissy’s screen full of data, the way truth had traced back to the exact person who’d tried to break her.

“Maybe,” she said. “But if I do, I’m turning comments off until the internet remembers how to behave.”

The table laughed.

For the first time since she’d walked into Avalon Middle School and smelled its cafeteria on that very first day, Hannah wasn’t counting minutes until she could escape. She wasn’t planning how many safe crackers she could eat without drawing attention.

She was just… sitting at a table with people who wanted her there.

Waffle the Labubu sat tucked in her backpack, only his plastic ear poking out. He was no longer a ticket to acceptance, just a strange little creature her mom had bought because she thought it would make her smile.

It had.

Real friends don’t require anything from you other than your friendship, Mom had said.

Hannah took another microscopic bite of cookie and decided, right then, that she believed her.