Emma
The knock came early, during breakfast. Heavy, impatient.
I was in the kitchen feeding Zoey her cereal when I heard the door creak open. My father's voice rumbled low, followed by the sharper, colder tones of men I didn't recognise. Their footsteps carried through the thin floorboards, purposeful and heavy, as they moved into the front room.
"Stay put," Mum snapped at me when I hovered near the hall. Her hands were shaking as she pulled at her cardigan sleeves, face pale except for two high spots of colour on her cheeks. She shut the door before I could ask who they were.
For the next hour, the murmur of voices threaded through the walls, low but tense. Every now and then there'd be a pause, the scrape of a chair, a cough, and then the voices began again. Zoey tugged at my sleeve, wanting to play, but even she seemed to sense the house wasn't safe.
When the men finally left, Mum stood in the doorway, her arms crossed tight, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't say goodbye to them. She didn't say anything at all until the door closed, and then she turned on us.
"Can't I have one morning without this racket?" she snapped, glaring at my brother and the twins as they argued over the television. "You think I've got nothing better to do than pick up after you all day? No respect, not one of you."
Her voice rose higher and higher, sharp as glass. My siblings fell silent, wide-eyed, but I'd learned long ago not to answer back. Zoey's little fingers clung to mine, and I pulled her close, whispering,
"come on, let's go play outside."
We slipped out the back without another word.
The woods were quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed with birdsong and the rustle of leaves instead of shouting. I settled Zoey on a patch of grass with a stick and a pile of twigs to keep her busy.
Not long after, I saw Tommy, walking down the path toward me, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair catching the light.
My stomach flipped the way it always did when he appeared. He smiled when he saw me, and for a moment, the morning melted away.
We sat together beneath the trees, and he started telling me about the city — about the school he went to, the trips his family took, the flat his father kept near his office.
He didn't brag, not exactly, but the way he spoke… it was like he didn't even realise how lucky he was.
I nodded in the right places, but each word pressed heavier on my chest. Private schools. Tutors. Skiing trips abroad. A house with more rooms than they used. He didn't notice the way my smile slipped, or how I looked away, tugging at the grass.
All I could think was how different we were. Him with his polished world, where nothing was ever missing. Me with cracked floorboards, shouted mornings, and the weight of my siblings on my shoulders.
I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say,
"you don't understand, I don't belong in your world."
But the words stuck. Instead, I just went quiet, my hands twisting in the grass until the blades tore.
He kept talking, gently, earnestly, not realising that each word pulled me further away.
And all I could think, was that maybe I was foolish for ever imagining we could belong in the same world.
Tommy
At first, she listened. Her chin propped in her hand, eyes fixed on me like every word mattered. I didn't think twice when I told her about school in the city, the trips my family took, the long list of things that felt normal to me.
But after a while, something shifted.
Her smile faltered. The light in her eyes dimmed, like clouds drifting across the sun. She picked at the grass between us, pulling it up in thin green strands, her hands restless.
It hit me suddenly — my words weren't making her feel closer. They were pushing her further away.
I went quiet, my chest tight. I thought about how to fix it, how to close the distance I'd somehow created. The silence stretched, heavy, and I couldn't stand it.
"You're not like anyone I've ever known," I said finally. The words slipped out softer than I meant, but true all the same. "You don't… pretend. You're just ... real."
Her head snapped up. For a heartbeat, I thought I'd said the right thing. But then her jaw tightened, and she pushed herself up off the grass.
"Not like anyone you've ever known?" she repeated, her voice sharp. "Because I'm not good enough, is that what you mean?"
"No — Emma, that's not what I —"
But she was already brushing off her shorts, turning toward the trees. Panic jolted through me. I couldn't let her walk away — not when I'd only just found her.
I scrambled up, my heart pounding in my ears. Before I could second-guess myself, I reached for her wrist, gentle, but desperate, and when she turned back, startled, I did the only thing that felt right.
I kissed her.
It wasn't smooth or practiced. It wasn't anything I'd imagined in the quiet of my room. It was clumsy, too quick, my lips pressing against hers with the urgency of a boy afraid of losing something he didn't even know what to name.
But when she froze, just for a second, then softened against me, it was like the world stilled. No parents. No expectations. No burdens. Just her.
Her lips on mine.
Our first kiss.
The air around us seemed to hum, the leaves whispering overhead, the sun glinting through the trees as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless, I searched her face. My hands trembled, my chest heaving.
And for the first time, I understood — Emma wasn't just different. She was the difference.