Robin serves a large group of grateful guests, one at a time. The sound of their compliments stacks eerily until they lose meaning. Her smile holds two frames too long before we intercut with—

An idyllic summertime image of 90s suburbia, where a young Robin gives her popsicle magnanimously to a neighborhood boy who has been bullied… This is who she has always been.

With the house party in full swing, Jeremy is characteristically unengaged—lounging in the backyard, smoking and scrolling social media. TikTok audio bleeds under dialogue with his girlfriend when she comes out to escape for a moment. Seeing Robin’s stress, Jeremy insists that she take a break and reluctantly enters the play host instead.

While chatting about the novel Jeremy has been writing, he and Kristen experience an intimate interaction that neither of them anticipates. Time dilates and the noise fades; gazing into each other’s eyes, they are oblivious to the party for a moment.

Robin’s endometriosis has never been this bad before. As the attack happens, we see surreal, dreamlike flashes to a young Robin lying in her mother’s lap, sobbing as she’s being cooed to: “It’s okay… He would never… You’re okay.” The camera doesn’t look away, and neither does Jeremy. He tries to help her to no avail, triggering her even more instead.

Robin revels in the painful exertion of a hike with Kristen, strapped with ankle weights and ascending at a faster and faster pace. The sequence is oversaturated and clinically sharp, almost commercial. Every time she pushes harder, the sound gets cleaner in her POV.

Ears ringing, Kristen insists that they stop for a bit. The jokes and laughter don't last long, before the conversation about Jeremy happens: "He loves me and spoils me… But I hate myself when I'm with him, sometimes."

Robin ignores the lunch Jeremy's prepared for her, snapping at him with irritation and leaving Kristen and him together. Kristen jumps into his arms joyfully, demanding to be fed, and he carries her across the threshold into the house like it means nothing. It of course means everything.

Robin steps out of the shower and stares at her own reflection, steam still on the glass, as if she were trying to recognize someone. Disdain replaces the muted expression on her face. She goes to bed without bothering to dry herself.

The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. We do not cut away; we stay with her. Then, well... someone dies.