Home was loud in the way only our house could be.
Aisling was stretched across the couch when I walked in, scrolling on her phone with one leg hooked over the armrest. One of my brothers was on the floor, controller in hand, arguing with the other about whose turn it was. The television played something none of them were really watching.
"Cala's home," Aisling said, not looking up.
"Hey," one of my brothers added, distracted but warm enough.
I said hi back. It came easily. It always did with them.
I stepped over a tangle of wires and shoes and dropped my bag by the wall. The house smelled familiar. Clean, dinner already put away, everything settled into its place. Aisling shifted to make room for me, nudging my leg with hers like she always did.
"You good?" she asked.
"Yeah."
It was not a lie. Just incomplete.
From the kitchen, my mother's voice carried down the hallway.
"Cala, did you put your shoes away?"
"I just got in," I said, already bending to move them.
"Make sure they're not blocking the door."
"I will."
There was always something to adjust.
My brothers went back to their game. Aisling leaned over to show me something on her phone, laughing quietly when I did not react fast enough. For a moment, it felt easy. Like I belonged there without having to calculate myself.
Then my mother appeared in the doorway.
"Did you finish your homework already?"
"Not yet."
Her eyes flicked to my phone, then to the bag on the floor.
"You should start before it gets too late."
"I will."
She lingered a second longer than necessary, as if measuring whether that answer was enough, then turned back toward the kitchen.
The moment closed.
Dinner was fine. Normal. My brothers argued about something small. Aisling complained about a teacher. My father asked how school was and accepted my answer without pushing. Plates were cleared. Chairs pushed in. No one raised their voice.
I was good at this part.
Later, in my room, the quiet felt heavier. Not lonely exactly. Just different from the noise outside it. I sat on the edge of my bed and checked my phone.
Nothing.
I locked the screen and set it down, then picked it back up as if my hand had not gotten the message.
Down the hall, someone laughed. A door closed. My mother reminded my brother to turn the volume down. Ordinary sounds. Safe sounds. Proof of a full house.
The house always knew how to hold itself together.
I wondered what it would feel like to say something. To tell Aisling that something felt off. To tell my mother I was tired in a way sleep would not fix.
I did not.
I did not want to sound dramatic.
I did not want to seem ungrateful.
I did not want to invite questions that would require answers.
So I stayed quiet.
When my mother knocked and reminded me about the time, I said okay and waited until she walked away before changing into my pajamas. Her footsteps faded down the hall, measured and controlled.
In bed, I turned my phone face down.
Then back over.
The screen stayed dark.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to the house settle. A door closing. Footsteps moving down the hall. Someone laughing softly, then shushing themselves.
My phone lit up.
I reached for it too quickly, then stopped myself.
It was not him.
It was Aisling.
Can I sleep in your room tonight?
I smiled before I meant to.
Yeah, I typed back. Come.
A few minutes later, she padded in with her blanket tucked under her arm, hair messy, already half asleep. She did not say much. Just climbed onto the other side of the bed and settled in like she had always belonged there.
"Thanks," she murmured.
"Anytime."
The light went off. The bed felt smaller, warmer. Her breathing evened out beside me, steady and familiar.
For a moment, the wanting loosened its grip.
Not because it was gone.
But because I was not alone in the dark.
I held my phone loosely in my hand, the screen dim and quiet.
Tomorrow could wait.