I stay silent. My throat is too tight. If I speak, I'll cry. If I cry, I'll never stop. After a long moment, I hear her sigh.
"Okay," she says. "I'll give you space. But I'm here when you're ready to talk."
Her footsteps fade down the hall.
I pull out my diary and start writing. My hand is shaking so hard the letters are barely legible.
I fucked up. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be what they want me to be.
Bane's right. I'm closed off. I'm cold. I'm everything Linda said I was.
Pretentious. Difficult. Wrong.
I stop writing.
Cross it out.
Try again.
I just want to disappear.
Chapter 5
Idon't leave my room all day.
Margot knocks twice. The sound echoes through my room like a gunshot every time—three soft raps that make my chest tighten. Once in the morning with coffee I don't answer for. I can smell it through the door—rich, dark, the way she makes it with cream and sugar because she knows I won't drink it black. The scent lingers in the hallway for minutes after her footsteps fade. Once around noon, asking if I want lunch. Her voice is muffled through the wood but I can hear the worry in it. The pleading.
I stay silent both times.
Eventually, she stops trying. The hallway stays quiet. No more footsteps. No more knocking. Just silence that feels heavier than her concern.
The thing about hiding is that it gives you too much time to think. Too much time to replay every word, every look, every moment where you proved Bane right. Every syllable. Every facial expression. Every second of that dinner playing on loop in my head like a horror movie I can't turn off.
You don't want to be part of this family.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. White bursts of light behind my eyelids. Pressure building. Building. Almost pain.
He's wrong. I do want to belong somewhere. I just don't know how. Don't know the rules. Don't know the steps. Don't know how to be the person they want me to be.
The light shifts across my floor as the day drags on. I watch it move. Slow. Inevitable. A sundial marking time I'm wasting. Golden. Then orange. Then purple. Shadows stretching. Lengthening. Swallowing the room inch by inch.
I have class at eight.
I should shower. Get ready. Pretend yesterday didn't happen.
At six, I finally move. My body protests—stiff from lying in bed all day, muscles cramped, joints aching. I have to push myself up with my arms. Have to force my legs to swing over the side of the mattress.
The bathroom is ridiculous.
All white marble and brushed nickel, with a rainfall shower that probably costs more than my entire tuition. There are expensive-looking bottles lined up on the counter—hair products, cologne, face wash I'll never use.
I strip—pulling my shirt over my head, kicking off my jeans, letting everything fall to the floor in a heap—and turn on the water. The pipes groan. Water sputters. Then streams. I hold my hand under the spray, adjusting the temperature until it's almost too hot. Almost burning.
The mirror fogs as steam fills the room, and I catch my reflection before it disappears completely.
I look the same as I always do. Too pale. Washed out. Ghostly in the harsh bathroom light. Dark hair that needs cutting. Shadows under my eyes that never quite fade no matterhow much I sleep. Purple-gray crescents that make me look sick. Exhausted. Haunted.
Five-seven. Short. Always the shortest in any group. Always looking up at everyone else. Slim build that Margot calls "lithe" when she's being nice and everyone else just calls small. Skinny. Scrawny. The kind of build that reads as weak. As vulnerable. As prey. I'm not built like the brothers—no broad shoulders or imposing height. Just... compact. Unassuming.
