It was around 3 pm when school finally ended. For me that is. Those that loved school a little too much like my brother stayed behind for "extracurricular activities".
More like unnecessary time wasters.
I was in my car ready to leave until I thought I heard something.
"Avery!"
I almost didn't hear it over the bass. For a second, I thought I imagined it. Or there was another person in the school who shared the same name as me. Besides nobody called my name unless it was a teacher or Valerie.
Valerie mostly to mock me. And the teachers for, you know ….?
Daniel wouldn't call to me now. He's busy somewhere in his, I don't know how many-ith club. And even if he did, he mostly called me Ave. Never my name in full.
And my parents did same thing. And it has happened so much that I get genuinely confused sometimes if someone calls my name in full.
"Avery!"
The second time I heard my name. I decreased my radio's volume and looked outside my window.
Not far from my car someone was coming closer. Kimberly. Standing a few steps away, bag slung over one shoulder, looking like she'd been psyching herself up to say something.
I rolled my window down and gave her a look.
"What?" I asked, sharper than I meant. My voice came out like a cornered cat. I didn't like being held back when it was time to leave.
She hesitated, then bit her lip. "Could you… maybe give me a ride home? My mom's car broke down again, and the bus is…. well, I don't want to deal with it."
Of course she didn't. The bus was social Darwinism on wheels. I knew. I lived it. And was emancipated from it.
The day my uncle bought this car for me was one of my happiest moments. I'm still confused on why Daniel chooses to take the bus though. Geniuses, I guess?
My gaze then fell on Kim again. I considered her plea but my first thought was to immediately say no. The word was right there on my tongue. Why me? Don't you have a dozen other people who'd line up for the chance to drive you home? Don't you have other friends who'd be kind enough to drive you?
After all we weren't really friends anymore. I'm the worst person to ask. And I'm definitely somebody who shouldn't even qualify as your last resort. So, why?
I was about to decline but what actually came out instead was, "Fine. But I'm stopping by my place first."
Kimberly's previously tense posture relaxed. Her face lit up like she'd worn something. She gave me a familiar and very unwanted smile that always managed to make me feel a little warm.
"That's totally okay." She mentioned as she nodded her head repeatedly.
I didn't know how to feel about that.
The drive was quiet at first, except for Evanescence bleeding through my speakers. I didn't bother changing it. If Kim wanted Taylor Swift or whatever, she could get out and walk.
I didn't hate Taylor Swift. I had 'We're never ever getting back together.' playing on repeat yesterday.
But today I was in a Evanescence mood. And I refused to change it for anyone. Even if the president himself stopped my car and asked me to change it. I'll say no straight to his face.
She didn't complain though. Just watched the city roll by, fingers drumming on her knee in rhythm with the music.
And a small part of me was happy that her taste in music hadn't changed much. I still had conflicting feelings about her being in my car but I couldn't kick her out now. Or maybe I could.
Nope, not falling down that rabbit hole.
When we pulled into my driveway, she glanced at the house like it was a curiosity on display. Too big for comfort, too empty inside.
I was first surprised at why she looked at it so curiously. Then I remember this was our newest home. We moved here late last year. And she definitely didn't know to that.
"Your new house is nice," she said automatically, as if that was the polite thing to say.
I snorted. "You don't have to lie."
Inside was worse. Shoes abandoned by the door. Papers scattered on the kitchen table. Silence heavy enough to choke on. My parents weren't home, obviously. Daniel had debate club or chess or… something.
Kim followed me in anyway. Brave girl. Or stupid.
She stood in the kitchen while I dumped my bag on the counter. "It's quiet," she said softly.
"Yeah." I opened the fridge, stared inside at nothing I wanted, and shut it again. "Always is."
I'm under the opinion I'm the only one who actually lives here. The others if they had the choice would probably prefer to stay in their respective "workplaces."
Yay me, way to find another way to show me how badly I don't fit in even with my own family.
With a sigh and the teachings on how to be proper host from my mother, I looked back at Kim. " Can I get you anything?"
For a second, she didn't say anything. Then: "I missed hanging out with you."
The words punched me in the gut harder than that one dodgeball Megan through a little too hard. My body suddenly went rigid.
I didn't answer right away. Couldn't. My throat felt tight.
Instead, I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You're the one who left."
It was mostly my fault but I wasn't going to admit that to her.
Her face fell. "Avery…"
And just like that, all the ghosts I'd worked so hard to bury were back, standing in my kitchen, smiling with Kimberly's face.
I quickly blinked them away and focused on my earlier question. "Water or juice?"
Her eyes met mine for a moment. And she looked like she was searching for something in my face. When she couldn't find whatever it was she simply sighed.
"No thanks. I don't need anything but could tell me where the bathroom is?" She mumbled.
Kimberly disappeared down the hall, her footsteps soft against the hardwood.
The second she was gone, I slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. My chest was tight, like I'd been holding my breath the whole time she was talking to me. Maybe I had.
"I missed hanging out with you."
The words replayed on a loop, digging under my skin. Why now? Why here? Why me?
I rubbed at my face, willing myself not to think too hard. This was temporary. She needed a ride, I happened to be here. End of story.
Except it didn't feel like the end. It felt like someone had cracked open a door I'd nailed shut a long time ago. And the worst part? A tiny, traitorous part of me wanted her to keep pushing.
The toilet flushed. Water ran in the sink. My heartbeat jumped like I was about to be caught doing something wrong, even though all I'd been doing was sitting at the table, drowning in my own thoughts.
She came back into the kitchen, smoothing her hair with her hand. Her eyes flicked to me, like she could read every word scrawled across my face if she wanted to.
"So," she said, voice light but careful. "Do we head to my place now, or… do you have time to, I don't know, catch up a little?"
The invitation hung in the air between us, fragile and dangerous.
"I'll take you home. Let me go change my shoes." I mentioned while leaving for my bedroom.
I was going to cut off whatever was starting between us right now before it grew into something. Again.
My room. My kingdom. My domain and the only place I felt safe and kinda happy in was located on the second floor and was the last room down the hall.
Once inside my body automatically relaxed. All the tension. The weight. And whatever else that bothered me immediately evaporated of my shoulders.
I kicked off my sneakers and switched them out for my battered pair of black boots, the ones that made me feel like I had armor on, even if they were just scuffed leather and duct tape holding the sole together.
They were another gift from my uncle. And something I couldn't bear parting with.
My eyes drifted around the room, and like always, the sight made something tight inside me unclench. Posters lined the walls, some crooked, some curling at the edges. Bands, anime art, even a couple prints I'd ordered online and never admitted to anyone.
My bed was messy, blankets in a heap, but it was my mess. My desk looked like a paper bomb had gone off, notebooks scattered, pens without caps bleeding into old worksheets.
And on the shelf, carefully placed like a shrine, sat my small, dog-eared collection of books. Worm was there. Always Worm. The spines bent, the corners torn, but still whole. Still mine.
I ran a hand across the cover of the first volume, fingers lingering a second too long. Taylor.
For a stupid moment, I wondered what she would do if she were me. Stuck in a kitchen with Kimberly breathing life into ghosts I wasn't ready to face. Taylor wouldn't falter, wouldn't fold. She'd stand her ground, no matter how much it hurt.
But I wasn't Taylor.
And that was the problem.
"You haven't changed much." A voice suddenly said behind me. Which caught me by surprise.
I flinched a little as I turned back to stare at whoever dared to come into my room without knocking.
Kimberly stood there.
My stomach lurched. "Do you know how to knock?" I snapped, sharper than intended. My room was my kingdom, and she'd just waltzed right in like it still belonged to her.
Kim's shoulders rose defensively, but she didn't back out. "Sorry. The door was half-open. I just…" her eyes flicked over the mess of my desk, the posters, the shelf, "…I remembered."
I hated the way she said it. Like she still had a claim here. Like the years hadn't happened.
I crossed my arms, trying to look more annoyed than rattled. "Congratulations. You remembered I'm a slob. You can go now."
She ignored the jab, stepping further in. Her gaze landed on the shelf. That shelf. My chest went tight.
"Worm?" she asked, voice soft but laced with something that felt too close to understanding.
"You still…" She trailed off, and for a moment it seemed like she was about to say something important. Instead, she just shook her head.
I wanted to tell her to get out. To shove her back into the hall and slam the door in her face. But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Because her being here, her looking at that shelf, felt like she was peeling me open with her eyes.
Kim glanced back at me, almost hesitant. But then her gaze fell onto something new. Her eyebrows rose as she looked at it curiously.
My eyes eventually followed her gaze. Somewhere in the mess that was my room sat a book that looked like it had seen better days.
Its cover was warped, the corners chewed from years of being shoved into bags and dropped on floors. The title was barely visible anymore, just faint letters stamped into the faded spine.
Kim tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "That one… I don't remember you having it before."
My chest tightened. She was kinda right I didn't have this book before. While out at the Bookstore the other day looking for 'Frankenstein'. I stumbled upon it. The book felt eerily similar to the Left hand of darkness and I eventually decided to get it.
The problem was, I'd forgotten I even had it. I found it again yesterday shoved somewhere under my bed. But like every other book I owned it was mine. And I was kinda protective of them.
I moved quickly, snatching it up before she could step closer. The worn pages rustled like a protest.
"It's nothing," I said too fast, shoving it against my chest. "Just… just a book."
Kim didn't look convinced. She crossed her arms and leaned on the doorframe, one brow arched. "Funny. You never held 'just a book' like it was going to bite someone."
The air between us grew heavy.
For a second, I thought about lying. About making up some excuse, laughing it off. But the words stuck. My throat was locked tight around the truth and the lies both, and all I could do was glare at her like that might push her away.
And she seemed to understand. She always did.
She raised her hands in surrender. " I'm sorry I intruded your space. I'll go wait downstairs."
I watched her go. Before relaxing again. I gently placed the book on my bed then left for the bathroom.
The cold splash of water across my face steadied me a little. Not much, but enough. I stared at myself in the mirror, droplets clinging to my skin, hair sticking to my forehead. I didn't look like someone who could hold their ground. Not like Taylor. Not like anyone worth admiring.
The reflection didn't blink with me.
I froze, hand still pressed against the counter.
For one awful, stretched-out moment, my reflection just… stared. Her eyes too sharp, too focused. Like she was waiting for something.
Then I blinked again and it was gone. Just me, tired eyes and all.
I let out a shaky breath and muttered, "Great. Losing it already."
By the time I got back to my room, the book was exactly where I'd left it, except it wasn't. The cover was open, pages splayed, as if someone had flipped through while I was gone.
But the house was quiet. Kimberly was still downstairs.
I swallowed hard, shoved my feet into boots, and grabbed my keys. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe.
✨
The drive to Kimberly's place was quiet. I had given her free reign over my radio on our way there but she chose nothing.
So, we drove in silence.
The kind that pressed on your ears and made every little sound stand out: the click of the blinker, the hum of the tires, the way she tapped her fingernail against the passenger window like she wanted to fill the void but couldn't figure out how.
I kept my eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Part of me wanted her to say something, anything, to break the weight of it. Another part of me prayed she wouldn't.
She shifted in her seat once or twice, like words were building but never made it past her throat.
She also looked twitchy and nervous about something. I didn't know what. And I didn't bother asking.
Too bad this moment was the beginning of everything that will go wrong in my life.
When we finally pulled onto her street, relief and disappointment twisted together in my chest. I shouldn't care. Shouldn't want more.
Her house came into view, a familiar, small, lived-in place with a crooked fence and flowerpots on the porch. It looked warm in a way mine never did.
Kim unbuckled her seatbelt but didn't move right away. She turned to me, lips parting like she was about to speak.
And for the briefest moment, I wondered if she'd ask to stay.
Kim sat there longer than I expected, seatbelt off but her hand frozen on the door handle. Her eyes were fixed on something I couldn't see, somewhere far away from the quiet little street we were parked on.
Finally, she turned toward me. And the look on her face made my chest tighten. Sad. Almost guilty.
"Avery…" Her voice cracked, soft as paper tearing. "I'm sorry."
Sorry? For what?
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Before I could ask, she went on, quick, like she had to force the words out before she lost her nerve.
"Don't come to school tomorrow."
The words dropped between us like a stone in still water. No explanation, no context. Just that.
I blinked at her. "What?"
But she didn't answer. Didn't even look me in the eye again. She shoved the door open, grabbed her bag, and practically bolted up her driveway. By the time I thought to follow, she was already inside, the door slamming shut behind her.
I sat there in my car, engine still running, staring at the house. My pulse hammered in my ears.
Sorry. Don't come to school tomorrow.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I sat there for another minute, staring at the dark outline of Kimberly's house like the bricks themselves might give me an answer. Nothing. Just silence, curtains drawn, porch light flickering once before staying steady.
"Don't come to school tomorrow."
Her words rattled around in my skull, clanging like loose change in a dryer. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I shook my head hard, like I could throw the thought out through my ears. "Whatever," I muttered, shoving the gear into drive.
The car hummed beneath me as I pulled away, headlights carving pale paths through the early dusk. I didn't want to go home right away, not yet. The air in that house would feel heavier than usual tonight.
So I just… drove.
No destination, no plan. Streets blurred into each other, stoplights changing without me caring. Familiar neighborhoods melted into ones I barely recognized. The world slipped past in streaks of sodium orange and fading blue.
By the time my thoughts slowed down, I'd circled halfway across town and back again, hands tight on the steering wheel, stomach coiled like a knot.
Eventually, I sighed and turned toward home. Where else was I supposed to go?
The driveway waited for me like a mouth ready to swallow me whole.
Both my parents' cars were missing from the driveway. No surprise there, but still… I stared at the empty spaces a beat too long, like if I wished hard enough one of them would just blink into existence.
Nothing. Just the dark outline of the garage and the faint buzz of a streetlamp ready to die.
I cut the engine and sat there in the stillness, keys clenched in my hand. The silence pressed in thicker than it should've. No music, no voices, no hint of life from inside the house. Just me, my car, and the words Kimberly had dropped like a live grenade in my lap.
Don't come to school tomorrow.
I forced the thought away, pushed the door open, and stepped out. Who the fuck says that to someone any way?
I carefully removed my phone from its comfortable throne and placed it into my pocket before making my way inside. The kitchen lights were on when I entered, which meant I wasn't home alone anymore.
I first stopped by my bedroom to change into different shoes. I removed my Doc Martens with all the care in the world. And gently returned them where I found them.
Barefoot in the centre of my room I took a moment to look around. I looked around slowly hoping to find anything out of place. But everything was exactly as I left it.
The room was still an obvious mess. My small and still growing book shrine was still in perfect condition. All books untouched and perfectly ordered from favourite books to least favourite books.
Weird organising system, I know.
If everything was okay, why couldn't I shake off the little unease I felt?
Was it due to what Kim said?
I scoffed. Nah, I valued her way too little to give a fuck on her opinions of me.
Moving to my wardrobe I slid it open and took out the second most comfortable shoes I owned. My slippers. I put them on and also shrugged off the jersey I was wearing.
Feeling myself finally able to breathe properly, I wondered why I took a jersey in this heat. Then I moved to my stand and removed the contact lenses I was wearing.
I've never felt comfortable wearing glasses outside. Mostly to school. Fixing the familiar weight of my glasses onto my face, I was done. I was now me.
Near sighted, awkward teenage girl with impure thoughts about the same gender.
Finally I spared my room a final glance before making my way downstairs.
I was hungry.
My first stop: The fridge. The home of the many takeouts we've been having. And to my disappointment it was empty. Not in a literal sense. Everything in it wasn't appetizing and needed cooking before consumption.
I looked more cause I could have sworn I left myself something yesterday.
Closing the fridge with a sigh, I pondered my next move.
I could cook something. Do I want to cook?
When was the last time you had homemade food?
That's a good question now that I think about it. Both mom and dad usually come back late and tired. Making either of them cook would be torture.
Which also means for the past week. No,not only for a week. We've been having takeouts for the past month.
My eyes slid to the empty pizza box in the trash can. Yeah, I didn't feel like ordering anything tonight.
Cooking it is then. Now, one problem: what to cook?
Tapping the side of my head I went through every food I could cook. But I couldn't settle on one.
"Yeah, I have no clue." I muttered out loud to myself.
To my brother's room.
Daniel's room was just down the hall from mine, and as always, the door was shut. I padded over in my slippers, tapping lightly once before opening it anyway.
The difference between us hit me in the face the second I stepped in. Where my room was chaos barely contained, his was… neat. Too neat. Books stacked in precise towers, trophies dusted and lined up like soldiers, his desk spotless except for the chessboard sitting mid-game.
I frowned. "Of course you left it like this," I muttered.
The smell was different, too. My room smelled like paper and worn fabric, his smelled like detergent and faint cologne. Not lived-in so much as… curated.
And he wasn't here.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting my eyes drift over the rows of books. Science, math, debate prep, journals stacked like bricks. The kind of stuff that made Mom and Dad beam like they'd won the lottery.
But what I was really here for was food and opinions. But I could stop for a little snack. Daniel always stashed something. Candy, chips, a bag of pretzels. I started with his desk drawers, careful not to knock over his neat little world.
"Come on, genius," I whispered, sliding open the second drawer. "Don't let me down."
Inside was my jackpot. A half-eaten pack of Oreos and a bag of Doritos, sealed with a rubber band. My stomach grumbled like it hadn't seen food in days.
I hesitated, then grabbed them both.
"Payment for being the disappointment," I said to the empty room, and closed the drawer.
When I turned to leave, though, something else caught my eye, something that didn't fit. A folded piece of paper tucked under the chessboard, corner peeking out like it wanted to be noticed.
My hand froze halfway to the door.
"Should I?"
Come on, you know you want to.
Of course I do. But if he obeys my 'don't touch rules' shouldn't I do the same?
I don't see any sign that says I shouldn't. That thing is practically asking you to open it.
No it isn't.
How about this, you take a quick peek inside and put it back before he comes? That way you didn't actually touch anything cause he didn't see anything.
That's bullshit.
Come onnn, what kind of big sister doesn't peek through his younger brother's things once in a while?
I don't know, maybe the kind that doesn't want to find their brother's masturbating materials and touch something they shouldn't and have to cut their hands off.
Uhhh, You have a point but this is Daniel we're talking about. Surely he doesn't do those things. He too…. Prudish.
Are you under the opinion that he would tell me if did those things?
Just open the fucking paper!
Okay, okay. Yeesh.
I spared a look into the hallway before moving inside again. Carefully taking the paper I opened it to find….. a love letter.
A love letter.
Not typed, not neatly printed, but handwritten. Messy loops of ink scrawled across the page in a way that was so unlike Daniel.
My brother, the human calculator, the golden retriever in debate shoes, writing something this… raw?
I skimmed the opening lines before I could stop myself.
"You probably don't even notice me, but every time you laugh in class it feels like someone turned the lights on. I know this is stupid, but…"
I clamped the letter shut, heart hammering. My face felt hot, like I'd just walked in on something I had no right to see. Which, technically, I had.
Daniel, my Daniel, writing a letter like this? It didn't fit. It felt like I'd stepped into an alternate universe.
"Oooo," I cooed. "My little man is finally growing up."
"Wow," I whispered to the empty room, voice dry. "Golden boy's got secrets."
I slid the letter back under the chessboard, hands careful, like I was putting back a relic in a museum. Like if I didn't place it just right, the whole thing would come crashing down. And a huge stone might appear out of nowhere and crush me.
Oreos and Doritos tucked under my arm, I retreated quickly. Closed his door, leaned against the wall, and blew out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Back to square one.
Back in the kitchen, I dropped Daniel's snacks on the counter like a thief displaying her loot, then pushed them aside. No. Not tonight. I'd already committed to cooking, and for once I wanted to follow through.
Spaghetti and meatballs. Classic. Simple. Comfort food.
I rolled my sleeves up and washed my hands under water that was just a little too cold. The stainless-steel sink reflected my frown back at me until I shut it off and grabbed a pot.
First step: pasta. I filled the pot with water, set it on the burner, and cranked the heat until a blue flame licked the bottom. The faint metallic roar of the stove filled the silence.
Salt…. Eh I think I added too much, probably, went into the water. I remembered reading somewhere that the water should taste like the sea. Which was weird, because I'd never even been to the sea.
While it heated, I turned to the meat. Ground beef waited in the fridge, tucked in plastic wrap like it was sulking. I dumped it into a bowl, added breadcrumbs I found in the pantry, an egg cracked with more force than finesse, garlic powder, dried parsley, a pinch of salt and pepper.
My hands dove in, cold and sticky, mushing everything together until it formed a lumpy, uneven mess.
Rolling them into balls was oddly satisfying. Imperfect little spheres lined up on a plate, each one different, none of them beautiful, but mine.
The pan hissed when I dropped them in. Oil spat like it was offended, and the smell of browning meat filled the air, warm and heavy.
I stirred, turning them over with a wooden spoon, watching them slowly crisp to a dark golden brown.
By then, the water was boiling. Spaghetti went in, long strands softening, curling, sinking below the surface. Steam rose, fogging my glasses until I shoved them higher up my nose.
Sauce next. I wasn't ambitious enough for something homemade nor did I have the time or patience for it. A jar of marinara from the cabinet did the trick. I poured it over the meatballs, the red bubbling around them like lava, scent mixing with oregano and garlic until the kitchen felt alive again.
I stirred. I waited. I let the sauce thicken. And for a few minutes, the silence wasn't heavy or suffocating. It was warm.
And for the first time all day, I felt… okay. With a twinge of sadness.
"Cooking doesn't feel the same without Aunt Rose." I thought out loud.
She'd been the only one who ever cooked with me. The only one who turned it into more than just… survival. Every time she visited, we'd end up in the kitchen together, me grating cheese while she told stories, her showing me the difference between "seasoned" and "salted," both of us laughing when we burned something by accident.
And then the cancer that took Uncle Sean took her smile. And when the treatments failed and he died, when the pain got worse, she made her choice. A handful of pills, a note folded neatly on her bedside table.
My throat tightened. Suddenly I wasn't hungry anymore.
Even now, I couldn't decide which hurt worse that she was gone, or that I understood why she did it.
I rested my head in my hands at the kitchen counter, the smell of marinara and garlic swirling around me, familiar and yet hollow.
For a moment, the silence was too much.
"Music, I need music."
I padded upstairs, the house creaking under my slippers, and grabbed my phone and headphones from the nightstand. The second I slipped them on, the world shrank down to just me and the beat.
Dreams by J. Cole.
The opening bars rolled in like a slow tide, and my chest loosened. I mouthed the words at first, then whispered them, then finally let them spill out in a low hum. I knew every pause, every cadence, every shift in tone. My own private gospel.
Back downstairs I waited patiently for everything to finish.
" I'ma follow in my car, I'ma cut in front of his, Run him right into the wall, maybe even off the bridge, I give her a little time, then console her while she cryin'
She gon' take that as a sign, finally she will be mine
I'll be king and she'll be queen when I hit her with the ring
At the wedding, who gon' sing?" I sang, even pausing to laugh here and there.
The door creaked open in the hallway, breaking the flow of the song.
I froze, spoon mid-stir, as footsteps padded across the tile.
"Smells good," Daniel's voice said first. My brother.
I turned my head just in time to see him step into the kitchen… but he wasn't alone.
Behind him came a heavier set of steps, slower, deliberate. Our dad.
The air seemed to snap colder even with the stove blazing.
He hadn't been home at this hour in God, how long? A month? Two? Maybe longer.
He stood in the doorway, coat still on, workbag dangling from his hand. His gaze swept the kitchen like he was auditing it. The fridge door shut too hard. The pizza box in the trash. The two empty glasses by the sink. Finally, his eyes landed on me.
I swallowed. "Dinner's almost ready."
He didn't say anything right away. Just nodded, once, as if I were an employee reporting in late.
Daniel looked between us nervously, backpack slung over one shoulder, like he wanted to vanish upstairs.
But our father stayed put.
Stephen finally broke the silence.
"Avery." His voice was flat, not warm, not cold, just there. A statement, not a greeting.
"Dad." I forced my lips into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Dinner's almost ready. Spaghetti and meatballs."
His tired eyes flicked toward the simmering pot, the pan of browning meatballs, then back to me.
"Don't dish up for me." He adjusted the strap of his workbag and turned, already heading for the stairs. "I've got work to finish."
The words landed like a dull hammer. No anger, no care, just plain old dismissal.
Daniel shifted uneasily beside me, toeing the floor. I wanted to say something sharp, anything that might stick, but the lump in my throat kept me silent until I blurted, "Is Mom coming back tonight?"
Stephen stopped halfway up the first step. His shoulders rose and fell once before he answered.
"She's still at the hospital. You know how it is."
He didn't look back at me. Just kept climbing, each step heavy, final. A door shut upstairs a moment later, sealing him away.
The kitchen felt emptier than before he'd entered.
Daniel muttered something about homework and slipped off too, leaving me with nothing but the bubbling pot and my own reflection in the darkened window above the sink.
When the spaghetti was finally ready, I drained it, steam rising in a cloud that brushed against my face like phantom fingers.
Everything went onto a plate, spaghetti twisted into a messy nest, sauce and meatballs piled on top, a dusting of parmesan from a can shaking over it like fake snow.
I stared at the plate a moment, fork in hand. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't Instagram-worthy. But it smelled good.The smell should've been comforting, but it felt hollow. Like cooking for a ghost.
Carrying it into the dining room, I set the plate at the head of the table, my spot. The empty chairs around me looked like an audience of absences.
I twirled one forkful of spaghetti, lifted it into the air like a toast, and whispered, "Happy birthday to me."
The words cracked at the edges. I shoved the bite into my mouth before I could think too much about it.
But the next twirl slipped, sauce and noodles spilling across the tablecloth. I stared at the mess for a beat, then let out a shaky laugh that didn't sound right at all.
Abandoning the plate, I carried myself upstairs, heavy steps echoing in the silence.
In my room, I kicked the door shut behind me and collapsed onto the bed. The plate downstairs could rot for all I cared.
My eyes drifted to the shelf, to the battered spine of Worm's first volume. My fingers found it automatically, pulling it down, opening to the middle like muscle memory.
The words swallowed me whole. Taylor's world. Taylor's fight. Taylor's voice.
The only thing that ever made me feel real.