“You mean not being who you want me to be?”
“Don’t twist my words. You know that’s not what I mean.”
The silence after that stretches and stretches until I can hear my own pulse in my ears.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say finally.
“Caleb—”
But I hang up before he can finish.
The sound of it echoes in the empty room, sharp and final.
I throw the phone down on my bed, watching it bounce before pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see stars. I don’t even know why I thought he’d understand. Why do I stillkeep trying to make him see me—the real me—when it’s clear he never will?
He doesn’t see what Miguel sees.
He still sees the kid who flinches.
The one he has to fix.
I get up, strip off my hoodie, and toss it on the chair. I can’t sit still, can’t stop pacing. The room feels too small, the fluorescent lights too bright.
So I do what I always do when I need to feel in control of something.
I clean.
Laundry first. Then the pile of papers on my desk. I organize them by class, stack the textbooks, plug in my laptop, and start answering old emails. Anything to fill the space, to stop thinking. When my phone buzzes again, I tell myself I won’t look. But the screen lights up and his name is there.
Just leave me alone.
Dad
You’re acting strange, Caleb. Like you’re regressing. I thought the therapy was supposed to be helping.
My throat goes tight.
Regressing.
Like everything I’ve been fighting to hold together is just slipping.
I sit down hard on the bed. The words blur for a second, the sting behind my eyes sharper than the pain in my heart.
I don’t reply. I can’t. Because what would I even say?Yeah, sorry, Dad. The therapy’s going great.My stepbrother has his bruises and marks all over my skin and I feel safer with him than I ever did with you.
That’d go over well.
I scroll up through the texts and see all the old ones, reminders about class, about therapy, and about how proud he is when I perform well.
Alwayswhen.
Neverbecause.
He means well. I know that. He doesn’t know what to do with me.
And I don’t know how to tell him that every time he asks if I’ve met a girl, every time he says Miguel’s “different,” it feels like he’s telling me to be someone else.
I hate that loving Miguel is the one thing that makes me feel whole and also the one thing I have to hide.
