The road stretches out ahead of Maku and Mimi, the air smelling faintly of salt and sunscreen, the promise of the beach lingering just beyond the horizon. Just a few more minutes of driving until they arrive— GRRRRLLLLLMMMBLLL!

Before Mimi can reply, Maku grabs the wheel with the unhinged precision of a woman who’s far too emotionally committed to sugar.

SCREEEEEECH!

The car swerves so violently, reality itself tilts. A mailbox dies in the distance. Mimi becomes briefly airborne. The universe files a complaint.
With the elegance of chaos theory, the car launches over a curb, drifts across two empty parking spots, and slams to a perfect stop in a drive-thru lane that definitely wasn’t there ten seconds ago.

But then they look up. There is no menu. No intercom. No window. Just a blank slab of concrete, cold and raw, like the building rage-quit halfway through being a restaurant and never came back to finish the job. It's not even abandoned—it just forgot its purpose mid-texture render and decided to exist purely out of spite.

Maku shoots halfway out the window like a human periscope powered by confusion and delusion. Her torso hangs dangerously far as she scans the void, trying to summon the lost remnants of customer service with sheer willpower.

Maku leans farther. Too far. The kind of lean that says, “If I fall out of this vehicle, I deserve it.” Her head swivels like a frantic meerkat who just realized the food chain is real and she might be on it, scanning for anything resembling a speaker.
But there is still no menu.
There is only existential dread and the crushing realization that the building is gaslighting them in real-time.

Maku’s words are interrupted by the full-blast roar of a robotic intercom voice coming from Mimi’s side of the car.

Mimi flails in pure, unfiltered panic. Her arms whip out wildly then— SLAP!

Maku hauls herself back inside, spinning around.

Maku squints at Mimi, mouth twitching between skepticism and... reluctant consideration. She takes a moment to ponder.

Maku’s gaze narrows, pensive. Her grip tightens slightly on the car door.

Maku's pupils dilate.

The weight of understanding settles on Maku.

Maku's breath catches.

Long pause.

Maku's thoughts of slapping her own ass was abruptly interrupted by Mimi's growing anxiety. She looks at the intercom. Looks at Mimi. Then leans back, hands behind her head as a thick layer of smug drips from her voice.

Mimi gives a glare that could vaporize concrete.

Mimi’s voice raises a pitch.

Maku squints.

Mimi lets out a long, suffering groan. The sound of a girl being emotionally waterboarded by social expectations. She begrudgingly rolls down the window. The air hits her face. Her anxiety flares. This is the battlefield now.

Mimi’s soul leaves her body. She stares ahead. Blank. Gone. Her spirit has achieved orbit.

A twinkle—dangerous, unearned, and spiritually reckless sparkles in Maku’s eyes.

Mimi is vibrating with stress as she leans toward the intercom.

One chance.
Mimi opens her mouth—
and the words fall out in a single panicked blur. Too fast. Too shaky. The emotional equivalent of dropping spaghetti on a white carpet.

Silence. The kind of silence that echoes. That judges. That rewrites your neural pathways.

Mimi dies inside. Somewhere, her self-esteem packs its bags and books a one-way ticket to “We Don’t Talk About That Place.”

Maku, who has been loving every second of this, leans in helpfully.

Mimi, mid-crisis, side-eyes her.

Mimi stares.

The words hit Mimi's ears wrong, garbled by her anxiety and the crackling static.

Maku blinks, caught off guard.

Mimi turns back to the intercom, voice rising an octave.

There is a long pause from the intercom.

Mimi freezes.

Maku is thriving in her suffering.

They inch forward in line, Mimi gripping the dashboard like it’s the only thing tethering her to this world. Then—

Mimi stiffens.

Maku pats herself down like she’s just now remembering that she’s wearing a swimsuit and, therefore, has nowhere to store a wallet.

Mimi stares at her. Stares at the window. Stares back at her.

The car inches forward to the next window. They are so close.

Maku taps her chin. Then—

Maku hums in thought, then nods, as if reaching some profound decision.

Mimi narrows her eyes.

Maku pouts.

And then— Too fast. Too soon. Too loud— They reach the window. The final boss.
And Mimi? Her legs forget how to leg. Her knees have filed for emotional divorce. She is: 90% fear, 7% hoodie static, 3% ketchup packet in human distress.

She stares at the window like it’s a judge, and she’s about to be sentenced for the crime of “existing weirdly in public.”
What if she says “you too” when they tell her to enjoy the food?
What if they don’t make eye contact?
What if they do?

This is it.
The Moment.
The sacred transaction where food is exchanged for dignity, and she is fully unprepared.

She is no longer a person. She is social anxiety in a human-shaped container.

Silence.

The stress visibly melts from both of them at once. They turn to each other in slow, stunned disbelief.

Just as Mimi is about to exhale in relief—

Instant panic. Both of them freeze, eyes widening in horror.

They glance back at the car behind them. A family. With kids. Mimi winces.

Maku slams her foot on the gas, and the tiny car shoots out of the donut shop like a wind-up toy on steroids, its tires squeaking like a rubber duck as she drifts into the street and cuts off traffic.