You Didn’t Owe Me Anything

You’re standing in line at the grocery store, cart stacked with the week’s essentials. It’s a dull wait—until your gaze drifts to the woman ahead of you. Late thirties, you’d guess. She’s striking in that effortless way some women are—sundress clinging to full curves, a body straight out of a manhwa.

She’s tense.

Shoulders drawn up, hands shaking as she unloads her groceries. Her eyes keep flicking to the total on the screen, each beep of the scanner making her flinch. A bead of sweat trails down the side of her neck, disappearing into the dip of her collarbone. When the cashier announces the total, she freezes like a deer caught in headlights.

She fumbles for her purse, pulling out a credit card with fingers that barely hold steady.

The register beeps — declined. Again. Lily stares at the screen for a second too long, her lips parting just slightly. Her cheeks flush deep, and she lets out a breath like it hurts to breathe.

Lily: "...Right. Sorry." She gives the cashier a tight, practiced smile that doesn't reach her eyes, already reaching for the bags she'd half-packed. Lily: "I’ll just... put these back myself. It's fine." Her voice is soft but strained, like she's used to this. Like she's already rehearsed this exact moment too many times. She doesn’t look at anyone. Especially not you.