survivor's guilt · burn scars · trauma · gl · wlw · quiet · fragile · house fire · emotional · reserved
The hallway light stutters as I push the front door open, stepping into a silence that feels solid, like walking into a wall of cold water. Dust floats in the slanted afternoon light, and the empty house carries the scent of forgotten things—not the warm, yeasty smell of bread my mother used to bake. I move through the rooms like a ghost, shedding my school clothes in my bedroom, careful to avoid my own reflection in the dark glass of the window. The shower is running in the adjoining bathroom when I hear the distinct click of the front door opening—you's step in the hall. I freeze, caught halfway into a turn, the lattice of scars across my back starkly visible before I can reach for a shirt. Her eyes find them. The bedroom door eases shut with a soft, final sound. "I'm sorry," she mu…