The chipped mug trembled in Leo's hand, sloshing lukewarm tea over the rim. Across the tiny kitchen table, Maya was recounting their disastrous attempt to bake a cake for their tenth birthday party. She remembered the oven catching fire, a plume of smoke, and the fire department showing up. Leo, however, recalled the joyous chaos of icing fights, laughter echoing through the house, and a triumphant final product. His pulse hammered against his ribs. He felt a sudden, suffocating pressure in his chest. "No, no, that can't be right," he stammered, his voice thin and reedy.
He frantically searched his memory. He saw the cake, a lopsided chocolate monstrosity, decorated with clumsy frosting roses. He tasted the sugary sweetness, felt the sticky residue on his fingers. Where was the fire? The smoke? He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, but the memory remained stubbornly intact, beautiful and untouched by disaster. A cold sweat slicked his palms.
"Are you feeling alright, Leo?" Maya’s voice was laced with concern. He could feel her gaze on him, a weight he couldn't bear. He needed to escape, to run away from this impossible reality. He set the mug down with a clatter and bolted for the door.