Or she took the time to look. She always had.
Did she like what she found in there? Did she see the parts of me I hated? The parts I was trying to kill off?
I avoided her, too, because it was easier than wondering. Easier than imagining her disappointment. Easier than facing a truth I couldn’t even admit to myself.
I kept to my room. Not because I liked it, but because it was the only place I could breathe. My own personal holding cell. Different walls, same cage.
That’s where I was now, hiding again while myfamilygathered downstairs in front of the TV. I reached for my journal,the one place I could still say his name without choking on it. The cover was soft from years of being handled, corners bent, the spine creased enough that it opened to old wounds on its own. My hands shook as I flipped through pages of dumb doodles, half-finished lyrics, and notes scrawled at two a.m. when I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stop thinking about him. I dismissed each page until I hit one that stopped me cold.
Tru’s laugh feels like home. If he ever left, I’d burn the whole place down just to follow him.
My breath stalled. Heat crawled up my neck until it burned behind my ears. My fingers dug into the paper so hard they left half-moon dents. The kid who wrote it was an idiot. Pathetic.
I tore the page out so hard it screamed, ripping straight through the binding. It wasn’t enough. My chest burned like I was breathing fire, and if I didn’t do something, I’d explode. So I kept going—ripping, crumpling, shredding. The paper split under my nails, edges slicing my fingertips, graphite smearing my palms.
I wanted it gone. All of it. Every word I’d ever written about him. Every reminder that I’d been stupid enough to love him.
By the time I came up for air, the journal was unrecognizable, a gutted thing on the floor, pages scattered everywhere. My throat burned. My hands stung. I didn’t even remember dropping it, only the dull throb in my chest when there was nothing left to destroy.
And even with the proof of my feelings obliterated into confetti, the feelings remained inside, where I couldn’t reach, couldn’t rip them out and shred them as easily as paper.
It was taco night. Charlotte made it special, like she always did with homemade guac, the good chips, and a little candle in the center of the table trying to make this some cozy family memory we were all supposed to tuck away in a scrapbook.
My dad poured sparkling cider into wine glasses, a grin stretched wide across his face. That should’ve been my first warning. He washappy.That brand of proud-dad glow he wore like a new suit he couldn’t wait to show off.
“Alright,” he said, lifting his glass. “We’ve got some exciting news tonight.”
Tru glanced up from arranging his food, constructing a tiny taco city. Charlotte beamed across the table. I kept chewing,slow and suspicious.
“Since you boys are getting older,” Dad went on, “and you’ve been handling responsibility really well—” a lie, but okay “—we figured it was time.”
My stomach flipped. I sat up straighter, some traitorous part of me actually lighting up.
“You got me a car?” I asked too fast.
He laughed, shaking his head. “Not just for you, Son.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single key. One. Just one.
Tru blinked, startled. I stared at the key as if it were a knife.
“You’re sharing,” Charlotte said, sounding chipper. “We thought it would be a great way to teach teamwork and?—”
I stopped listening. The buzzing in my ears was too loud.
Share?With Tru? The kid who slipped into my life because it was always meant to be his, and left me standing on the outside of everything I used to call mine?
I looked at my dad. He was smiling like he’d just won Father of the Year. And maybe he had. For Tru. But for me? That key wasn’t a gift. It was a leash.
My appetite died right then and there. “You’re serious?” I muttered, pushing my plate away.
“You’ll work out a schedule,” Dad said, not even looking at me. “It’s about trust. Communication.”
I nearly laughed. Communication. Between me andhim.
Tru stared at the key, quiet as ever. Of course he was. Always the perfect fucking golden boy, nodding and taking whatever was handed to him with that little grateful smile like it didn’t cost someone else something.
My chest burned.
