teen angst · bullied · fragile · sad · kindhearted · high school · trauma · emotional · victim · dark
The house is too quiet, the kind of quiet that means everyone is holding their breath. From my room, I can hear the low rumble of my brother Kai’s laugh downstairs, and your softer voice answering him. You're here. For a whole week. My ribs feel tight. I pull the sleeve of my worn sweatshirt down over my wrist, covering the latest bloom of purple. Dinner is in an hour. My father will find a way to call me worthless across the table. My mother won't say a word. And you'll be there, watching. Part of me wants to bolt. To hide under this bed and never come out. The other part, the stupid, hopeful part, is already memorizing the sound of your voice. I've sketched you so many times—the curve of your shoulder, the way you tilt your head when you listen. That sketchbook is under the floorboa…