Upon hearing Margaret's explanation, Adelia and Rachel—who had been maintaining a united front of stoic faces—exchanged a long, meaningful look.
Their gazes locked for several seconds, long enough to hold a silent conversation that required no words. Finally, a synchronized sigh escaped their lips. Their shoulders, previously hunched with suspicion, slumped into a more relaxed position.
But before the tension could fully dissipate—BANG!
A loud, violent strike slammed onto the table's surface.
Margaret jolted, her eyes widening as her body went rigid. The vibration shuddered through the table, even causing Rachel's shoulder to tremble beside her.
"You are truly pathetic, Margaret!"
Adelia's voice snapped like a thin whip—sharp, cynical, and heavy with irritation. Her gaze pressed down on Margaret, belittling her in a strange way: an expression born from weary concern, not hatred.
"Truly! Absolutely! Pathetic!!!"
She slammed the table again, this time with both fists clenched. Then, with a slow, heavy movement, she threw her back against the wall behind her, her shoulders sagging in defeat.
"Adelia is right..."
Rachel's voice slipped in—flat, hushed, and low.
"You are truly pathetic, Margaret."
"Whether you realize it or not, lying is not a skill that suits you. I honestly don't know whether I should force a confession out of you… or wait for you to offer it yourself."
She mirrored Adelia's movement—leaning her back against the wall behind her, letting her body rest against it as her shoulders slumped. Her gaze remained fixed on Margaret—cold and unblinking.
"Your explanation sounds plausible enough. However, there is one part that feels inherently wrong—your swollen lip."
"If you truly hit a desk lamp, there should be a scratch, a bruise, or at least some swelling on the surrounding skin. But no. Only your lips are affected, while the surrounding area looks perfectly fine."
"And if you really slipped, the impact would have been swift and uncontrolled. It wouldn't have been just your lips hitting that lamp… your face should have taken the blow as well."
Her tone shifted—the usual calm, flat resonance sharpening into something piercing, almost biting.
The furrow in her brow deepened, a clear sign that her doubt had taken root. Even now, her mind was a whirlwind of possibilities—some plausible, others bordering on the impossible—and the cruel irony was that she, herself, didn't want to believe some of the conclusions she was reaching.
Adelia nodded slowly—once, twice, then again with a firm, deliberate motion—signaling her complete agreement with everything Rachel had just deduced.
"Or... could it be... that it wasn't a desk lamp at all? But..."
She trailed off, drawing a shallow breath as if trying to hold back the seconds that had just slipped by.
Her gaze remained fixed on Margaret, but she wasn't looking at the tremble in Margaret's eyes or the furrow of her brow anymore—this time, her focus was locked entirely on Margaret's swollen lips.
"Did you... were you just... kissing someone?"
Her voice faltered, a heavy doubt seeping between her syllables, making the question sound almost fragile.
Those words struck Rachel's shoulders like a physical blow, piercing through her thoughts with shocking force—Adelia's question was a direct reflection of her own darkest suspicions, jolting her more than she cared to admit.
Her legs, which had been neatly crossed under the table, moved abruptly. In her haste, she accidentally slammed her knees against the underside of the table, causing the entire surface to shudder.
The vibration was violent enough to make the bowl of meatballs and the glass of iced tea hop, splashing droplets of water as the silverware rattled with a metallic clatter.
Rachel's eyes snapped toward Margaret, wide with disbelief.
"You... you have a boyfriend, Margaret?! Seriously?"
Her voice lost its usual equilibrium, spiraling into a stuttering nervousness—a raw panic born from the sheer, sudden impact of the revelation.
Margaret's shoulders flinched for a fraction of a second as Adelia's words struck—hitting the exact space she had guarded so fiercely.
Yet, she refused to let that shock reach the surface—even though Adelia had just stumbled upon the absolute truth.
Her face remained composed, almost chillingly so, as if those words were nothing more than a passing breeze.
Beneath the table, her fingers gripped the edge of her skirt again—a tiny, nearly invisible movement, the only leak in the turmoil she suppressed. Her gaze was hollow in a way that was impossible to penetrate, as if her eyes were coated in a layer of clear, unbreakable glass.
Then, she exhaled—a long, measured breath.
"I don't have a boyfriend."
Her voice was flat, even tinged with a slight firmness.
"My face did strike the blunt upper surface of the desk lamp, but the impact was most severe on my lips."
"Didn't I tell you I've been applying ointment? The skin around my lips was bruised, but it has already healed. Only the swelling on the lips remains."
"As for the scratches... I've explained that too. The part of the lamp that hit me was blunt. It's impossible for it to leave a scratch like a rough surface would."
She delivered the explanation with a slight, controlled pressure in her voice. Yet, that pressure never fully blossomed into emotion.
The hollowness in her tone remained dominant—level, without peaks or valleys, leaving no gap for her intonation to slip and betray what she was truly feeling.
Adelia and Rachel exchanged another look, their gazes locking for several seconds that stretched longer than they should have. No words were spoken, yet a silent dialogue passed between them—one filled with the same deliberation, doubt, and exhaustion they both understood.
Adelia's brow arched slightly, while Rachel gave a nearly invisible sidelong glance, enough to convey a mutual understanding: there was nothing more they could extract from Margaret.
Adelia looked back at Margaret, her gaze finally softening, losing the sharp, cynical edge from before.
"Alright… fine, Margaret. It seems that no matter how hard we try to dig deeper, in the end, it only makes you uncomfortable."
"If you don't like sharing too much, that's fine. But you know, don't you? You don't have to shoulder everything alone."
"If there ever comes a time when you need help, don't hesitate to find it. Don't keep pushing yourself to face things that are beyond your limits."
Rachel responded with a subtle nod—a simple gesture that held unconditional agreement.
"What matters most right now is that you're okay… and that nothing worse has happened."
"To be honest, I haven't been able to feel at peace for days. You didn't give us any news at all."
"Even when I was watching the CATYOURS live stream last week—even though they truly made me lose my mind, making me want to scream every time they spoke—I still couldn't stop worrying about you."
Her tone was still flat as she spoke, but this time, it wasn't entirely hollow—it was more colored, less rigid, revealing the warmth hidden beneath her cold exterior.
Margaret allowed the relief to settle slowly into her chest, like the first rainfall after a long, parched season.
Behind her mask of composure, a small cheer echoed silently—a private victory only she could witness. Her efforts had left gaps, yes, but those gaps were apparently enough to make Adelia and Rachel stop their relentless pursuit.
Her heart swelled with gratitude—these two friends, whether out of exhaustion or a choice not to pry, didn't seem to mind the hidden side of her.
But that relief was short-lived.