Contradiction

Congratulations, Squiddo$!
You won.
I knew you could do it.
I'm so proud of you %^!+.
Let me take a picture.
M̶ (̶*̶%̶ One with the certificate,
And Callie, hold the trophy.

Eggs. This morning, Callie will try the scrambled eggs. She smiles at the chef and he smiles back and asks if she wants cheese on them (of course!), she hums along to the drums and clarinet urging her on her way through the cafeteria, and then she's taking her plate of scrambled eggs and toast back to her table and it tastes... it tastes off.

Like everything else has tasted off since she moved here. She knows the eggs are cooked perfectly, but they feel slimy in her mouth, and rubbery, and...

Callie sets them aside and nibbles on her toast, which is grainy and dry and sticks in her throat even with the jam that's supposed to be sweet not sour sour sour but it's something. It's something.

It's just her. She's homesick. No one else is having problems with the food. Inkopolis food was all a little bit less fresh than she was used to when she moved there from Calamari County, and this time there's no one with her to make the transition easier.

Harbor slides into the booth across from her. "How did last night go?"

Callie grins at him. "I haven't done a live performance in ages." She waves at another coworker, who smiles but sits elsewhere. Callie can't blame her. They want everyone present for the finale to speak Octarian well enough that they declared a ban on other languages in the cafeteria, and half her coworkers are struggling; most would rather sit alone than fumble through it. "I'm glad it was just Bomb Rush Blush and the variations in other languages you helped me write. The Octarian one is particularly good." She's been thinking those words instead of her own whenever she hummed it ever since; Harbor—well, everyone is better at lyrics than she is. But there's just something about the Octarian version that sticks with her, makes her want to listen more. "But it'd be too weird doing any of our other songs alone."

Harbor stops, a spoonful of porridge (Callie nearly puked when she tried that yesterday, it was just nerves she's sure) halfway to his mouth. "Our songs? I mean, I'm flattered, but..."

Callie rolls her eyes. "Myself and Mary's."

"Oh, you had help with all the old ones?" Harbor eats another spoonful of porridge. Callie doesn't know how he can stand it; he's not even reaching for the honey or cinnamon.

"Well, yeah. Mary's always been better at lyrics than me." Callie swallows down a lump in her throat. "She's the better of us Squid Sister's, no doubt."

Harbor stops again. "The stress is starting to get to you, huh? Maybe you should spend today resting, since we have it off. You don't have a sister." Overhead, the song changes, piano and flute, and Callie feels herself relax.

She frowns anyway, because, really? "Well, yeah, but Mary and I grew up together. It's the name of our band. The Squid Sisters?" She knows Harbor knows this. She eyes her eggs again and reaches for the ketchup; she's still hungry. But... no, ketchup makes not a bit of difference.

Harbor shakes his head. "You've been a solo act as long as I've known you," he says. "Longer. I used to watch you on the news, making each day's guest co-host laugh, as they spent time with The Squister."

Callie thinks she might be sick. She pushes her plate away. "I'm, um, you're right. Rest," she says, and flees without taking care of her plate. She runs through the hall as fast as her legs will carry her, pounding up the stairs, and drops her key trying to get it into her door.

She pushes it open. Staring at her, visible clearly from the door, is a photograph of her, years ago, on stage, holding a trophy the size of her head. She looks happy. She looks excited.

She stands alone, where she could've sworn yesterday the picture had Mary by her side.

That's fine. She must've left the one of her and Mary at their apartment. Gramps would've wanted one of his granddaughter alone. Instead, she opens her lapotop and clicks to the saved movies. All their performances. She can play them on the TV, remember the good times.

She speeds through the intro band and waits. Waits for her and Mary—

Callie comes on alone.

Callie's hearts clamor in her chest. She sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. It's... it's fine. It's nothing, really. That must have just been a solo performance. She... she's sure she did some solo concerts, after they left the news, right?

Except the concert before that has her alone.

And another, much earlier, where they—where she alone is an intro band.

Callie shoves her laptop away and dives under her bed. She fishes out the box of programs and fliers, every show they've done since—they all list her as a solo act.

Somewhere in the building, music plays, piano trying to make her calm. It doesn't help. A noise escapes the back of Callie's throat. She shoves a fist in her mouth, muffling it, as it grows into a scream and tears pour from her eyes because she—she—Callie knows—

Callie curls up on the floor, trying to breathe, because she knows she's never been alone, she's had someone on stage with her, silent support and love and courage all at once, while the TV shows her singing Maritime Melody with only a band to accompany her.