Ashley's pov
So yeah, after that day, me and Luhle started talking — and not just a little. We talked a lot.
At first, it was just a few texts here and there. A simple "hey" or "how was your day?" But soon it became a rhythm — constant, easy, and comforting. My phone would buzz late at night under my blanket, and I'd sneak a peek at her messages while pretending to be asleep.
Sometimes we talked until one in the morning, whispering over the phone like two kids sharing secrets under the stars.
It was weird, how quickly we clicked.
She liked BTS — I loved BTS. She was obsessed with anime — I lived for anime. She devoured novels — I had an entire bookshelf overflowing with them. We swapped book recommendations, traded playlists, and argued over which character in Attack on Titan deserved better (spoiler: we never agreed).
Our music tastes were different — she was into soft indie, and I liked anything loud and emotional — but that didn't matter. She never made me feel like I had to change to fit in.
She was funny, too. Not the kind of funny that tries too hard — the natural kind that just spills out of her without effort. She made the world feel lighter, less suffocating. Sometimes when she talked about her day — school, her mom, the weird kid in class who ate glue once — I'd close my eyes and imagine being there with her. Walking to class, sharing lunch, laughing in hallways. Things I'd never experienced but always dreamed about.
And what made me love her even more was how open she was. She didn't build walls like most people did. She told me everything — the good, the sad, the in-between.
Like how her dad had passed away when she was only seven.
The way she said it was quiet, almost casual, like she had learned to carry it without showing the weight. "It's just me and Mom now," she'd said one night. "She's a lawyer, so she's never really home. I kind of grew up on my own, I guess."
But instead of letting loneliness crush her, she filled it with color. She painted — beautifully. Her room, she told me, was splashed with half-finished canvases, each one alive with emotion. When she sent me a photo of one of her paintings — a girl standing in the rain, holding a paper lantern — I stared at it for so long that my phone screen dimmed twice.
It was breathtaking.
I told her so, of course, and she laughed, saying, "It's nothing. Just something I do to keep sane." But I could tell it was more than that. Her art was her voice — the one she didn't always use out loud.
Eventually, I told her my story, too.
About my parents. About how they wouldn't let me leave the house. About being homeschooled, monitored, controlled. About how even stepping onto the front lawn felt like rebellion.
She was quiet for a while after I told her everything. Then she said, "Ash… you're like Rapunzel."
I laughed, but there was something tender in her voice when she said it — a mix of pity and disbelief. "Except your tower has Wi-Fi," she added, making me giggle.
She told me I should stand up for myself, that I should tell my parents I needed to live a little. But she didn't understand — no one could. My parents weren't the kind who listened. They were the kind who decided.
Still, even with all their rules, I couldn't stop seeing her.
It started small — short visits at the edge of her yard, standing near the gate and talking about random things. Then one day, she tugged my wrist and said, "Come on, no one's watching."
And that was that.
Soon we were sneaking in hours together — in her backyard, in her room, sprawled across her carpet surrounded by snacks and music and laughter. We talked about everything under the sun: our dreams, our fears, what we'd do if we could just run away for a day.
Sometimes, when the air was warm and the streets were quiet, we pushed my limits.
We'd go out for ice cream.
It sounds small, but for me, it was everything. The thrill of walking in public, the feel of wind against my face, the sound of my shoes against the pavement — it was like stepping into a dream. Of course, I always wore sunglasses or a hoodie, trying to hide my green eyes. I didn't want anyone asking questions. Not when my whole life depended on staying invisible.
But still, it was worth it. Every risk, every lie I told afterward.
For once, I wasn't the lonely girl in the window. I was just Ashley. A seventeen-year-old with a best friend, a favorite ice cream flavor (mint chocolate chip), and a million memories that made me feel alive.
It was the best year of my life — my sixteenth year — the year I finally learned what happiness could look like.
But the happiness never lasted, especially if you have parents like mine.
It happened a few months after my seventeenth birthday. I'd gone to Luhle's place like I always did, laughing, talking, completely unaware that my parents had come home early.
And just my luck — they saw me walking out of her front gate.
The look on my father's face when our eyes met — fury and betrayal mixed into something terrifying — made my stomach twist.
By the time I stepped inside, they were waiting.
What followed was a twenty-five-minute lecture that felt like hours. Words thrown like daggers — "reckless," "ungrateful," "disobedient.", the what ifs. They didn't even ask why I did it. They never did.
And when it was over, when I couldn't take another second of their shouting, I slammed the door in their faces.
The pictures shook. And so did my heart too.
I was angry. So, so angry. Angry that they couldn't see me, couldn't understand how it felt to live half a life.
But there was nothing I could really do.
Or so I thought