Beatrice stirs her vegetables around on her plate and glares at them as though they have personally wronged her. She stabs angrily at a piece of broccoli, but doesn't lift it to her mouth.

"Beatrice?"

She blinks, aware of the sudden lack of her parents' quiet chatter filling the empty space in the room. She clears her throat, and her face flushes with embarrassment as she glances up just enough to realize that are both staring at her.

"What?" she snaps. Her fork slips out of her hand and clatters loudly against her plate. She winces, and straightens her posture slightly. It's not her parents' fault that she can't get Tobias Eaton out of her head.

"I'm fine," she insists, convincing absolutely no one. "Just tired," she adds lamely. "Initiation." Candor was the first faction her aptitude test ruled out. "How was your day?" she asks, grateful for once that Abnegation expects her to deflect questions about herself.

But her father simply smiles, an expression that doesn't reach his worry-clouded eyes.

"We've just told you, Beatrice," her mother says gently. "Weren't you listening?"

"No," she admits immediately, quietly, and she squirms with guilt. For a moment she feels like she's six-years-old instead of sixteen. Her parents don't even look disapproving, but she knows they must be. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"It's alright," her father tells her. "We're just worried about you."

"Don't be," she tells them, both because it's expected that she think about them over herself and because she doesn't want the attention. Her eyes dart between her mother and her father until she is a breath away from spilling the truth of her fears. Her teeth clack loudly as she snaps her mouth shut, and she slides out of her chair and reaches for her father's empty plate. She clears the table and washes the dishes without thinking about it, stepping aside to give her mother space when she joins her in the kitchen.

"Beatrice, are you happy here?" Natalie asks softly.

"Yes," she replies, much too quickly. Her mother's frown proves that she's not fooling anyone.

"I am," Beatrice insists, because the disappointment she sees on her mother's face crushes her. She reaches out without thinking, resting her hand over top of her mother's. Her heart pounds rapidly inside her chest, because she is all too aware that casual physical touch is not an Abnegation-oriented response. Sixteen years, and she is still doing things differently, she is still wrong.

But her mother just squeezes her tightly, pressing her close against her chest and stroking her hair. Beatrice lets her eyes close as she breathes in the familiar scent of her mother's soap. She can't remember her mother hugging like this since she before she'd started school. It should make her uncomfortable, but it doesn't.

"I love you," Natalie whispers, her voice a quiet murmur that Beatrice can barely hear. "You know that, don't you?"

She nods, and her mother pulls away, picking up a towel and beginning to dry the waiting stack of plates, as though nothing unusual had happened.

Beatrice watches her for a moment, but the Abnegation compulsion against staring leads her to look away after only a few heartbeats. Half-formed questions nip at the edges of her mind, and the quiet tugs at her, screaming to be filled. She stuffs her hand into her pocket and squashes her worries about Tobias down into her secret-box, along with everything she'll never say about the empty space Caleb left behind.

"I'll finish here, Mom," she says, because she wants to be alone and the easiest way to get there is to offer to do something. It feels less selfish that way.

Her mother nods and hands her the towel, and somehow manages to make Beatrice feel guilty even without trying. When she watches how easily her mother fits into Abnegation life, it makes it even more obvious how much she doesn't belong. The awareness is constant, so strong that it hurts, like a crushing weight on her chest.

She finishes her simple chore and slips past the living room where her parents sit quietly in front of the crackling warmth of the fireplace. She slows for a moment, halfway up the stairwell, aware of her father watching her. She glances backward, but he says nothing, and she hurries up the rest of her way, disappearing into her bedroom.

The city lights pulse like bright stars through her small window. She watches them for a while, drumming her fingers on the windowsill, tension coiled inside her like a spring. After a moment, she sprawls onto her bed. The sheets are still a tangled mess; she hadn't bothered to fix them after Tobias left. She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. When she closes her eyes, she can smell him, alcohol and sweat and a hint of something metallic. She can feel the vibrations of the train roaring past, close by; she listens to its dying horn. Her breathing slows, and she concentrates on the calm feeling she needs so desperately to hold onto, inhaling deeply and exhaling until there is nothing left inside her, then doing it again. Another train rumbles and shakes her as its wheels roll along the tracks. Beatrice blows out an impatient sigh, pulls her shoes on, and slips carefully from her second-story window into the chilly night.