Heat rushed up my throat, and my whole body went weak. I froze, legs trembling as my head began to spin.
“Come on Candice, cough harder!” someone said, their voice tight with panic.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. My throat was closing, each breath was caught halfway. I shook my head hard, eyes stinging as fear clawed up my chest.
Then I forced one last cough.
Clack.
For a second, everything stopped.
The night sky was dark but glittering, stars scattered like tiny lanterns scattered across a boundless sea. The car window was slightly misted from the cool night air, and I pressed my face against the glass, watching the city lights blur by. We were heading to a small Chinese restaurant for a family gathering —- the kind that was filled with laughter, clinking of the dishes, and small talks between familiar voices.
When we arrived, the restaurant door swung open, releasing a wave of warm air mixed with the smells of soy sauce, garlic, and roasted duck. Inside it was bright and busy. People chatted between tables and waiters hurried by with trays of steaming dishes.
I spotted my grandma immediately, waving her hand excitedly. “Candice, over here!” she called.
I smiled and hurried over. The table was already full —- some I saw often, others I only met on holidays. My Aunt, whom I didn’t know that well, patted the empty chair beside her.
“You can sit beside me! She said kindly. I’ll take care of you tonight!”
I smiled and nodded, settled into the chair. The food started coming almost immediately — plate after plate, until the table was buried beneath color and steam. There were dumplings with thin, shiny wrappers, sweet and sour pork, and noodles sprinkled with sesame seeds.
I picked up my chopsticks and joined in, tasting a bit of everything. The warmth, the laughter, and the scent of good food wrapped around me —- the night you don’t think anything bad will happen.
Then a plate of round, the juiciness of the meatballs that shimmered under the light caught my eye. They sat in a pool of sauce, steaming softly under the yellow glow. I picked one up carefully with my chopsticks.
“Is this beef or fish?” I questioned my aunt.
“Beef,” she said with a small smile.
I nodded and popped it into my mouth. It tasted rich and soft, and a little sweet with a lingering sourness. I chewed once, twice — then swallowed.
And that’s when I felt it.
Something sharp scraped the back of my throat. I froze. Wait…what was that? I swallowed again, thinking maybe it was just a rough piece of meat. But the pain grew worse — sharper, deeper. It was like a tiny needle stabbing its way to my throat.
My chopsticks slipped from my hand and clattered onto the plate.
“Are you ok?” my aunt frowned, her voice cutting through the noise.
I tried to answer, but no words came out. My throat felt tight, blocked. My heart started pounding, sweat trickled down my face. No, No! This is not happening. It’s just food, right?
Just food, It’ll go down.
I tried to cough. Nothing came out except a dry, desperate whimper. My face burned.
“Come one Candice, just cough harder!” she said, her voice rising, filled with worry.
I shook my head, tears welling my eyes as my chest ached. The sound of the restaurant blurred into a distant hum.
Why won’t it move? Why won’t it come out?
Heat rushed up my neck. My hands were shivering. I tried to breathe slowly, but it felt like something sharp was clawing every time I swallowed. My vision blurred for a second, colors melted together.
…
The whole room seemed to tilt. My grandma turned towards me, her smile fading instantly.
“What’s wrong Candice?”
I couldn’t speak, I could only clutch my throat.
Panic crawled up my chest like a living thing. I could hear the heartbeat pounding in my ears, faster, louder, drowning everything else in the background.
My grandma’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and worried.
“Candice? What happened? Are you choking?”
I shook my head — I could still breathe, barely — but I knew that something was definitely stuck. Every swallow sent a burning pain to my throat, like a thorn lodged deep inside.
“Drink some water!” someone yelled. A glass of water appeared in front of me, shaking in my grandma’s hand. I grabbed it with trembling hands and gulped it.
The pain shot deeper. I gasped, slamming the glass on the table. That didn’t help, it made it worse. Way worse.
I coughed hard, then harder, gripping the table’s edge to keep steady. My face burned red. Everyone stopped eating, the chatter vanished, chopsticks hovered midair.
“Maybe some rice will push it down!” another voice said. Someone scooped a spoonful into my bowl. I shoved it into my mouth, chewing, swallowing, hoping and praying that it would work.
Nothing.
Tears filled my eyes. I could barely focus. Why isn’t this working? Why me? I don’t want to go to the hospital and get surgery! My thoughts spiraled, and all I could think of was the sharp pain cutting deeper each time I swallowed.
“Try to cough again!” my grandma said, her voice breaking with panic.
I nodded weakly. My throat was on fire, my chest felt tight, but I didn’t stop. I coughed again and again, each one sharper, harder, louder.
The room spun. I could feel everyone landing their pair of eyes on me, holding their breath.
Then —-
Clack.
It was a small sound, but it echoed like thunder. I froze. My throat stung, but the pressure was gone, realizing I could finally breathe normally again.
I coughed once more, and there it was —- and tiny fishbone, barely longer than a fingernail, gleaming on my plate.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then my grandma let out a shaky laugh. “Oh my goodness, Candice, that scared me to death!”
I sat back in my chair, breathing hard, my hands trembling. I felt exhausted but somehow my body was lighter than before, the weight of pressure had been lifted out from my whole body.
It’s out. It’s finally out.
After a few moments, the tension in the air began to fade. My breath slowed, and the heat in my face started to cool. My grandma placed a hand on my shoulder, her eyes still wide with worry.
“You scared us!” she whispered.
“I scared myself!” I said softly, half laughing, half sighing. My throat still ached, but I didn’t care. I was grateful to feel the air moving freely again, in, out, in, as if my body was relearning how to breathe.
My aunt looked completely guilty. She leaned towards me, her eyes full of apology, but hands were clammy, twisting the edge of her sleeve.
“Oh no, Candice, I’m so sorry.” she said quickly. “I thought it was beef, I really did.”
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice a little hoarse but calm. “You didn’t know.”
For a moment, nobody touched their food. The plates of vegetables stayed untouched, steam rising into the quiet air. Then my grandma broke the awkward silence. Again. “Well, I think Candice just gave us all a good story to tell!”
Everyone laughed, and slowly, the dinner came back to life. The clicking of the chopsticks returned, the warm smell of food filled the air, the center of the focus was not only me, but the joy of being there, being in the present.
The night went on, the restaurant noise wrapped around us once more. I looked around the table — at my grandma, my relatives, and the faces that had frozen in fear just minutes ago. Everything felt softer, brighter, like the stars, glittering through the vast sky.
As we drove home that night, I kept replaying the moment in my head on loop like a record player — the sharp pain and the fear that surrounded the table. I realized how life is full of surprises. Through highs and lows, I found that every part of the experience is a puzzle piece that shapes the very part of me. It reminds me to slow down and to be careful of collecting those precious pieces, even something as simple as a quiet family dinner.
