If life was fair—which it absolutely isn't, by the way—then guilt would come with a mute button. Or at least an off switch. But nope. Guilt doesn't whisper. It screams in your head like a toddler in Walmart, and the worst part is… it usually has a point.
So yeah. That was me. Sitting on a train packed like a tuna can of tired New Yorkers, while Guilt sat across from me, legs crossed, sipping an iced latte and glaring over the rim.
We'd just boarded the Uptown line. And when I say boarded, I mean squeezed through a horde of humanity like toothpaste from a crumpled tube. People were elbowing each other, everyone smelled like sweat and hot pretzels, and someone's Bluetooth speaker was blasting old-school R&B with enough bass to shake my bones. Welcome to the MTA.
Mom had that mom look on—tight jaw, focused eyes, politely violent elbows. She scanned the crowd like a general prepping for battle. And boom, five seconds later, she snagged us seats near the front window like some kind of seating ninja. How? No idea. I think she mentally intimidated the guy into moving. That's her thing. Scary, quiet authority. If she ever joined a gang, they'd call her The Enforcer.
I slid into the seat beside her, clutching my backpack like a shield and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. My leg kept bouncing like it had a mind of its own. I pretended I was fine. (Spoiler: I was not.)
I stared out the window like the buildings rushing past would magically erase the fact that I'd been expelled. Again. School #3 in three years. It was like I was speedrunning a bad coming-of-age movie, only without the quirky music and life-changing monologue. Just the part where the main character keeps messing up and pretending it's all just "part of the journey."
And Mom?
She sat beside me in complete silence.
Not the peaceful, meditative kind. The "I'm thinking of the exact words to use when I end you later" kind. I could practically hear her disappointment. It buzzed in the air between us, louder than the train announcements or that guy coughing behind me like he was trying to expel a demon.
I glanced sideways at her.
Her jaw was still clenched. She always does that when she's holding something back. Her hands were resting in her lap, fingers pressed together, not shaking or fidgeting. Just… still. Like she was building a wall around herself, and I wasn't allowed in.
And that hurt.
Because for all the ways I screw up—and let me tell you, I could write a whole trilogy—I do notice. I notice how she stays up late waiting for me when I miss curfew. I notice how she pretends not to cry when she thinks I'm asleep. I notice how she covers for me when my dad's mood goes nuclear. She's always… there. Even when I don't deserve it.
Which, right now, I really didn't.
Sometimes I try, y'know? I do. I tell myself, This time I'll be good. This time I'll stay quiet, stay out of trouble, do the homework, avoid nailing Shakespeare's chair with an actual nail. And for a while, it works.
Until it doesn't.
Because there's something in me—some twisty chaos core—that just pulls me back in. Like gravity for dumb decisions.
I thought about saying something. An apology, maybe. Something halfway decent like, "Hey, sorry I keep making you pick me up from train stations like I'm a runaway stray." But the words got stuck in my throat. Like, they wanted out, but my pride was standing at the door with its arms crossed.
So instead, I looked out the window again. Avoided her eyes. Let the city blur past while my insides twisted into pretzels.
Sorry, Mom, I said in my head, which, shocker, doesn't count in real life.
The train jerked. Someone cursed. A baby wailed somewhere behind us. My stomach flipped, not from the motion, but from the weight of everything I hadn't said—and everything I couldn't fix.
She shifted slightly beside me.
I stayed quiet.
Because sometimes being a teenager isn't about knowing what to say.
It's just about sitting there, letting the guilt gnaw at you, and hoping—praying—that maybe, just maybe, she still sees the part of you that wants to be better.
Even if you don't know how to be that kid yet.
My stomach made this noise—like an angry gremlin had woken up inside me and was trying to claw its way out.
Perfect. Guilt and hunger. Truly thriving.
Next to me, Mom shifted like she heard it (because yeah, it was that loud), then started digging through her giant purse. You know the kind—half tote bag, half portable black hole. I'm pretty sure I saw the corner of a flip-flop, a water bill, and possibly a crowbar vanish into its depths before she finally emerged victorious.
She pulled out a sandwich. Wrapped in cling film. Homemade. The kind that looks like love and low expectations.
Without a word, she held it out to me.
And I just… stared at it.
I don't know why. I guess my brain short-circuited for a second. I was too busy choking on thoughts like wow, she still packed this even though I ruined her day and I probably don't deserve carbs right now and I miss when the biggest thing I worried about was what Pokémon team to pick.
"You better take it, Tommy," she said, voice gentler than I expected. No judgment. No edge. Just that quiet mom-tone that somehow always makes me feel like a five-year-old caught drawing on the wall with peanut butter.
I blinked. Realized I'd been staring at her hand like it was cursed or something.
"Right. Sorry," I mumbled, taking it like I was accepting an award for Biggest Letdown of the Year.
The sandwich was warm-ish. Squished a little from being in her bag. I turned to face the window before unwrapping it, mostly so she wouldn't see my face doing… whatever weird emotion-things it was doing.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass, all soft and blurry thanks to the fingerprints and grime on the window. I looked… tired. And weirdly pale. Like a ghost who just got dumped.
I've never liked my face much. It looks too innocent. I get that from my mom—big soft eyes, those small lips like I'm constantly about to apologize, and this full head of black hair that flops no matter what I do with it. People always say I look "gentle." Which is hilarious, because I've also been suspended for throwing a chair.
It's the worst disguise ever. My face says "I do poetry and volunteer at pet shelters," but my brain is more like "What if I put a nail on my teacher's chair and test the laws of suspension again?"
(Which, yeah. I did. I skipped breakfast to set up Operation Shakespeare's Revenge. Worth it? Honestly… no. My stomach was now chewing on itself like it was trying to send me a cease-and-desist.)
I took a bite. Tuna and sweetcorn. Mom's usual combo. Comfort food for when the world feels like it's crumbling. It tasted like my childhood and regret. And mayo.
We didn't say anything after that. The train rumbled on. Someone sneezed four rows back like they were trying to exorcise a demon. My brain kept spinning.
We'd moved from Manchester when I was seven. I still remember the flight. I'd thrown up on a flight attendant and cried because I thought we'd left my favorite book at the airport. (We didn't. It was in my sock drawer. Which—don't ask why.) America was supposed to be this exciting new chapter. New friends. New school. New life.
Instead, I'd basically turned into the "Before" picture in every parenting book.
I took another bite, not because I was hungry anymore but because chewing gave me something to do besides feel things.
Outside, buildings blurred past in streaks of gray and steel. The sky looked tired. Same.
I leaned my forehead against the glass, eyes half-closed, sandwich half-eaten, and wondered—what if this time I actually try?
Like really try?
Maybe not for school. Maybe not even for me.
But for her.
Just once.
*********
My dad trains horses. Like, professionally. As in, "he once got kicked in the chest and still went back the next day" level of committed. And my mom? She teaches tiny kids how to read and share crayons without committing war crimes.
So yeah. Overachievers. The both of them.
Mom used to teach at this place called Creed School for Children—which sounds either super fancy or like a cult depending on how fast you say it. She was basically a walking storybook when I was little. Before I could even walk without faceplanting into walls, she had me and my sister tracing letters in mashed potatoes and reciting numbers like we were auditioning for toddler Mensa.
And me?
I bit into the cold sandwich she gave me. Tuna. Still kinda soggy, but the good kind of soggy. Mayo soaked into the bread just enough that it didn't feel like biting drywall. I chewed slowly, letting it fill the awkward silence between us like edible duct tape. Then, because I'm me and can't leave well enough alone, I mumbled, "It's good."
Which was, in teen speak, code for: Thanks for still being nice to me even though I've been a colossal screw-up.
She didn't say anything back, just gave me this small smile like she knew what I meant. Moms have that psychic ability to translate our grunts and awkward muttering into full emotional essays.
She was the best mother I could ask for. I know that sounds like something someone says in a cheesy award speech, but it's true. She's patient. Kind. Weirdly good at parallel parking. She always remembers my favorite books. She still cuts sandwiches diagonally because I once said it tasted better that way when I was six.
And yet—was I the best son to her?
Yeah… no.
I wanted to be. God, I wanted to be. But it's like there's this glitch in my brain that keeps hitting the self-destruct button at the worst possible times. Like, hey, here's a perfectly normal day—boom, let's put a nail on Mr. Brandwaters' chair and see how long it takes before security is called.
I chewed slower, the sandwich turning to guilt-flavored mush in my mouth. I swallowed it anyway. Because what else was I supposed to do?
The rest of the train ride was quiet. Which, honestly, was nice. No lectures. No sighs. Just the low rumble of wheels under our feet and the occasional screech of metal that made everyone wince like the train was trying to sing but forgot the lyrics.
I leaned into the silence. Let it wrap around me like a hoodie I didn't deserve.
While Mom scrolled through her phone or probably mentally restructured my life, I took out two of the books I'd swiped from the school library before, you know, being expelled and escorted off campus like a miniature criminal mastermind.
What? It's not like I'm going back to return them. Pretty sure once you get the boot, you forfeit your right to overdue notices. Library law.
The first book was some fantasy thing with a sword on the cover and way too many made-up names. The second was more my vibe—magic, time travel, kids who didn't fit in but still somehow mattered. I got that. I needed that.
I flipped through the pages, letting the words pull me away from the train, the guilt, the silence sitting next to me in the shape of my mother. Just for a bit. Just long enough to breathe.
Outside the window, the city rolled by—gray, cluttered, loud, alive. And for the first time all day, I didn't feel like I was falling. I felt still.
Even if I knew it wouldn't last.
By the time the train hissed to a stop and that robotic voice announced something I wasn't listening to, I'd finished the second book.
And yeah. I hated the ending.
It was one of those high-fantasy, sword-wielding, magic-rain-everywhere kinds of books, and I was into it. Like, properly sucked in. It had this princess who was supposed to marry a dragon—yes, an actual dragon—to save her kingdom. But plot twist: she ran away, because duh, it's a dragon. And guess what? The dragon got pissed, went full Godzilla on the place, and turned the whole kingdom into crispy toast.
And it was her fault.
The last page was basically like: oops, everybody's dead, The End. No resolution. No redemption. Just… ashes.
I sat there blinking at the last line like it had slapped me across the face and then dropped the mic. I stared at the stupid final period like maybe it would shift into a secret message that made it all make sense. It didn't.
What even was that?
I closed the book and let it flop in my lap. My fingers were still curled around the cover, like I wasn't ready to let go. Or maybe like the story wasn't done holding me.
I know it's fiction. I'm not dumb. I know dragons aren't real (probably). But still, it messed me up a little.
Because, yeah, they had flying lizards and sparkly armor and prophecy nonsense—but even with all that, they still lost. Like, the kind of lose where there's no plucky sequel setup, just a weird silence that leaks out of the pages and into your bones. A silence that kinda feels like failure.
I guess I'd always assumed books had to end with something. A lesson. A moment. A win. Even a sad win. But this one just… stopped. It left everything broken and was like, "Okay, bye now."
Which, honestly? Felt a little too familiar.
I glanced at the reflection in the train window—me again. Same tired eyes, same messy hair that refused to be tamed, same stupid face that looked way too much like a soft-boiled version of my mom's. I pulled my hoodie tighter around me, even though it wasn't cold. It just felt like something was leaking out of me. Something I didn't want to deal with.
My brain was spinning, stuck on this one thought I couldn't shake:
What happens after the book ends?
Like, do the characters just vanish? Cease to exist? Is it like turning off a light and they're just… gone?
Or do they stay frozen, waiting? Trapped in that final scene? Watching the reader close the cover and walk away like, "Welp, that's your life now. Enjoy the eternal void."
And if that's the case, is it worse to die in a story or to be forgotten in one?
(Yeah, I know. I was spiraling. Welcome to my TED Talk.)
The train gave a weird jolt, snapping me out of my mental existential meltdown. Somewhere to the left, a baby screamed like it had just learned the meaning of suffering. Across from me, a guy in a beanie was watching anime with the volume at "blow your eardrums out" level. The air smelled like cheap fries, feet, and someone's aggressively worn cologne. Real life was still happening, loud and ugly and way less poetic than I wanted.
And I was just there.
A kid with too many questions, holding a sad book and pretending I hadn't just emotionally imprinted on fictional people.
I shoved the book back into my bag. Carefully. Like maybe if I treated it gently, the story inside wouldn't haunt me for the next three business years.
Then I sat back and stared out the window. The city blurred by, fast and smeared, like even it didn't want to be seen properly. I tried to blink the heaviness out of my head, but it stuck.
Because the thing is—I didn't just hate the book because the princess failed.
I hated it because it made me wonder if I was the dragon.
Or the kingdom.
Or the idiot who closed the book and didn't fix anything.