Petunia spends most of her days enveloped in a deep, suffocating n o t h i n g. She used to hold onto hope for miracles, collecting trinkets in a box that she eventually donated to charity, purging it along with other unnecessary things. Her laughter is contained and tighten with a knot of politeness. She sealed herself off from the world of magic, discarding the key like scraps for stray dogs at a gas station. No one bothered to mend the cracks in her porcelain heart with gold; she considered it impractical and extravagant. After all, the porcelain was all that remained, a symbol of a certain propriety, a requirement to have at least a sliver of refinement in one's soul. But she found solace in a sharp wit, which she wore proudly, pinned to her jacket like a golden brooch. With black shoes adorning her delicate feet, she marched out the driveway and to-do-list's points are measured with clicks of heels. Petunia had no time to appreciate her surroundings, except for the occasional glance at her neighbors' summer flowerbeds – a desperate attempt at normalcy.

Today, the craving for a cigarette was particularly intense. Unfortunately, she'd left them at home and lacked the time to grab a pack during lunch. Now, she was forced to endure traffic lights with weary sighs, tapping out a song's rhythm on the steering wheel as a distraction. Perhaps the nicotine wouldn't be so desperately missed if her boss hadn't gotten on her nerves about a missing business agreement. Petunia could swear she left it on her desk yesterday. Just the old grump, taking pleasure in tormenting the new assistant. She clenched her jaw tighter, reminding herself of the career potential here. That's right. Her plan was clear: work here for a year. If a promotion didn't appear, she'd marry her boyfriend and quickly become a mother. She envisioned herself managing the household flawlessly, indulging in Tuesday tea parties with other wifies. She'd utilize her exceptional memory to navigate the complexities of local gossip circles and their never-ending broods. She will have one child. One is enough. Enough to avoid societal judgment, enough to maintain her figure, and enough to avoid unnecessary gym expenses. Petunia was a meticulous planner.

Entering the house without removing her shoes, she found solace in the concealing twilight of the backyard. Here, she finally let her rigid posture relax, the tension releasing like an iron rod slipping down her back. Lifting a loose brick from the ground, a hiding place she'd established long ago, she retrieved her cigarettes and lighter. Making sure no one observed her from the kitchen window, she took a tired drag, struggling to maintain a facade of composure and warmth under her blouse.  She could already feel her hair starting to frizz, that awkward in-between stage – neither curls nor straight, a frustrating mix that infuriated her. Imperfect. "No room for strays here," she muttered under her breath, watching as another guest arrived at Evan's house.