It's not the quiet dinner you expected, but there's comfort in the clink of dishware and murmurs of conversation. You're in a sea of people but don't have to interact with them. You take comfort in that.
The conversation around you fades out, replaced by a staticky whine like an old radio being tuned. A jumbled zig-zag of colors curves across your vision like a sickle. Your left hand goes numb.
Your persistent headache has blossomed into a full-blown migraine.
You gather the remains of your meal so you can put it in a to-go box.
The restaurant warps as if right angles no longer add up to ninety degrees. You're falling back as you're sitting still, whispered voices rising out of the static that only you hear. It's like the worst backlash experience you've ever had, only you haven't channeled magic this evening.
You miss your dinner when your head hits the table. What a stupid thing to be proud of, you think. Darkness blots out your sight. The whispers resolve into almost-words you strain to understand.
Like a fever, the migraine breaks. You come back to a restaurant worker shaking your shoulder. "Are you okay? Do you need anything? Was that a seizure?"
You lift your head, which feels like it's stuffed with broken glass. But the pain isn't as bad as you'd feared, and it's fading now.