Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Kyan’s POV: 

Sunday, 21st June, 5:17pm

The pungent scent of petrol assaulted my senses as the car door slammed shut with a deafening thud. The moment felt both final and profound, as if a chapter was closing and a new one was about to unfold. Then he emerged from the vehicle — like a lost soul stepping into a world where he didn’t truly belong, a bright spark in an otherwise muted environment.

His blond curls, wild and unkempt, tumbled effortlessly into his eyes, catching the golden rays of the setting sun. They shone like a halo, warped by the mischief that danced just beneath his surface. Silver glimmered everywhere: decorative rings adorned his eyebrows, a stud embedded in the curve of his nose, and a hoop tugged at his lower lip — all showcasing a rebellion against conformity, each piece gleaming in stark contrast to the gentle curves of his delicate features.

His clothes spoke volumes before he even opened his mouth. An oversized black shirt, marred by splatters that resembled both paint and distant starlight, hung loosely over silver jeans that hugged his legs snugly before flaring out at the ankles. The jagged seams and intentional fraying told tales of a life lived boldly. The battered boots he wore bore the scars of city streets and unseen struggles, each crease and scuff a testament to the adventures he had taken and the battles he had fought. A chunky black watch clung tightly around his wrist, its ticking echoing the rhythm of a restless heart, while a massive tactical backpack slung heavily over his shoulders suggested he was always on the edge of departure, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Spiked headphones rested casually around his neck, a bold proclamation of his indifference and perhaps a shield against the world.

Ma had often murmured her thoughts about boys like him — wild, reckless, unnatural.

I stood frozen in place, absorbing the sight of him with a mix of awe and trepidation, before I turned to Ma, silently hoping she would provide some sort of introduction. But she was too engrossed in a conversation with her high school best friend, laughter and nostalgia flowing freely between them. Of course. I sighed inwardly. So, this was the misfit I’d be spending my summer with? My eyes tracked back to him, curiosity gnawing at me.

Fantastic.

Impatience bubbled beneath the surface as I grunted, shifting from foot to foot, my gaze flickering anxiously between him and Ma, who appeared blissfully unaware of my plight. When I glanced back, I found her already drifting away with the other woman — his mother, I assumed. Swallowing my pride, I took a hesitant step toward him, my feet almost magnetically drawn to his presence, unable to tear my gaze away.

“So, city boy,” I said, attempting to mask my curiosity with a veneer of ennui. “What’s your name?”

He flinched slightly at my words, the reaction almost endearing in its vulnerability. I almost chuckled at his discomfort. He mumbled something that began with an 'A' — Alfie? Aidan? It hardly mattered, really.

An awkward silence enveloped us, thick and heavy, as if the world around us had come to a standstill. He looked bewildered, like a lost puppy searching for direction, eyes darting as if seeking escape. I opened my mouth to fill the silence, feeling the weight of unsaid words, but I closed it again as Ma’s voice called out from behind me. “Kyan! Come say hi to Eilís before she has to go!”

Reluctantly, I shuffled over and offered a quick, awkward wave to the city boy’s mother — Emily? Emma?

Does it even matter?

She barely acknowledged her son as she climbed back into the car, not even bothering to wave goodbye. His expression mirrored her indifference, an echo of pain hidden beneath a cool facade. Instead, he adjusted the strap of his backpack, locking eyes with me. The glint of his lip ring caught the fading light when he smirked, and an inexplicable flutter danced in my stomach for reasons I couldn’t quite grasp. It was probably just the heat. Definitely just the heat.

Perfect. This summer was already shaping up to be a beautiful disaster, and we were just getting started. 

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When the car finally dwindled to a speck on the horizon, Ma ambled over to the boy and me, her warm smile illuminating her features like a beacon.

“Alonzo!” she called out, her voice wrapped in a soothing lilt that immediately drew my attention and stirred an instinct to respond.

Alonzo. I mentally catalogued the name like it was a prized possession, knowing full well I had to hold on to it.

“My, you’ve grown up so much! I haven’t seen you since you were, what, seven?” Her voice bubbled with nostalgia, a hint of wistfulness colouring her words.

He nodded politely, though confusion gnawed at my mind. How could she remember him? Ma had never travelled outside the country. Was I missing something?

“And how old are you now?” she asked, her eagerness almost contagious.

“Seventeen,” he replied, his voice steady yet somehow remote, as if he were reciting a line from a script.

Wow. I hadn’t expected to be older than him. He stood taller than I did — there was no mistaking that — but even with my boots giving me a bit of an edge, we seemed to measure up almost equally.

“Oh, you’re just two years younger than Kyan! He’s nineteen!” Ma exclaimed, her pride radiating like sunlight on a crisp morning. Fantastic. Just what I needed — her about to share every detail of my life story with someone I had only just met.

“Well, it’s almost dinner time, so I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” she said, pivoting toward the house. Then she paused to look back at me, her expression shifting to something more earnest. “And remember what the Lord says about kindness.”

In an instant, Alonzo's demeanour shifted; he stiffened as if a sudden chill had swept through the air. Typical city boy — too sophisticated for such simple sentiments. He nervously fiddled with a bracelet on his wrist, and for a brief moment, genuine fear flickered in his eyes. An unfamiliar pang of concern twisted in my gut. I wanted to be angry, to dismiss him outright, but that look snatched the wind from my sails. Almost instinctively, I considered asking if he was alright, but I stopped myself — why should I care? And yet, something in his expression tugged at my conscience, urging me to apologise for something I hadn’t even done. I took a step closer, the gravel crunching beneath my boots, but the words slipped away from me. Instead, I retreated, crossing my arms defensively.

And then it hit me like a cold wave — I was stuck with him.

He glanced at me, a teasing smirk curling at the corners of his mouth, then quipped, “Couldn’t tell you were older since I’m taller.”

For crying out loud. I rolled my eyes, exasperated by his casual defiance.

“Careful,” I replied bluntly. “We aren’t friends yet. And I don’t plan on making friends with someone I’m only going to know for the summer.”

His grin widened, a mischievous glimmer dancing in his eyes. “So that’s how long I’m staying!”

I blinked, blindsided by his upbeat attitude. “What?”

“Shame,” he shot back, his casualness bordering on flippant. “It’s my eighteenth this month…”

What on earth? Had his mum really dropped the ball on that? Or was he one of those city kids perpetually lost in their own world? Either way, this summer was shaping up to be unbearably long.

“I’ll show you to your room,” I muttered, heading toward the house without casting a backward glance. He’d follow, I figured.

Except he didn’t. The ensuing silence was unsettling, almost eerie. For a moment, I questioned whether I’d drifted into some bizarre daydream. I turned around to find him moving quietly behind me, that same smug expression still plastered on his face.

“You’re quiet,” I remarked brusquely, trying to break the awkward stillness enveloping us.

“No shit,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Great. A smart mouth to boot.

At the door, I held it ajar for him. He strolled inside and immediately started to slip off his shoes.

“Oh, uh, you don’t have to do all that,” I stammered, scratching the back of my neck, realising how awkward this interaction was becoming.

He looked up, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”

“The shoes thing.”

“Okay?” he replied, a questioning lilt rising in his voice as he slid them back on. I swear, this boy had a knack for complicating even the simplest moments.

I led him up the creaky staircase into the guest room. He dropped his bag onto the bed and sank down beside it, and the air thickened between us with an uncomfortable silence. I half-expected him to start complaining — the outdated decor, the musty air, the groans of the ancient floors — but nothing came. Just silence hanging heavily in the air.

“Dinner’s at six,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended, like a blade cutting through the stillness.

He nodded once, and I turned to leave, leaning against the door frame momentarily before closing it behind me with a quiet thud.

Outside on the porch, I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling and spiralling into the orange-hued dusk, twisting like the myriad thoughts that swirled in my mind. I told myself I didn’t care who he was, that I had no intention of forming a friendship with some…some homo. But for reasons I couldn’t quite pin down, that conviction left a bitter taste in my mouth, like I was fighting against a tide destined to pull me under.

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Alonzo’s POV:

I slammed the car door with more force than I meant to, the metallic thud echoing across the open fields that sprawled like a vast ocean of green surrounding me. Confusion twisted in my stomach; all Mother had said earlier was a cryptic, “Pack a bag, darling.

How delightful. Just what I needed — a mystery hanging over my head.

I could hear her laughter mingling with someone else’s nearby, their voices fluttering effortlessly through the warm, sun-kissed air, reminding me of carefree summer days. I sighed, allowing my gaze to wander as I rounded the front of the car — and that’s when I saw him.

He stood tall, nearly matching my own height, with broad shoulders filling out a plaid shirt that looked like it had leapt directly from the pages of a farm supply catalogue. The way those jeans clung to his legs hinted at both strength and rugged charm. His weathered boots completed the whole “country aesthetic” — the kind that could use a refresher in modern fashion. Yet, I couldn’t deny it; he was undeniably hot, infuriatingly so.

A few wayward strands of dark brown hair, almost black, peeked out from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, glinting in the sunlight. Instead of offering a welcoming smile or even a casual hello, he stared at me as though I had just crashed a Ferrari into his pristine barn — a mixture of surprise and suspicion etched across his face.

My mother, ever the social maestro, swooped in to make the introductions as she always did. I caught a familiar gasp of surprise from a woman nearby realising who I was after a decade apart. What did she expect? The shock seemed redundant, and I still felt Kyan’s intense gaze boring into me; it was definitely not the kind of attention I was used to. It felt…different. Unsettling, yet oddly intriguing.

I must have been so lost in my thoughts, analysing every detail, that I didn’t realise he had closed the distance between us until he stood nearly toe-to-toe with me.

“So, city boy, what’s your name?” His voice was rough, each syllable rolling off his tongue with a thick accent that clung like a vine — both foreign and familiar.

“Alonzo…” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper, feeling like I was up against an immovable wall.

“Hm.” He hummed, an inscrutable expression on his face, like a book with pages torn out—impossible to read. “I’m Kyan,” he replied, his voice gravelly and deep, sending a shiver down my spine.

We stood there, ensnared in a tense silence, his piercing gaze either probing or challenging me, weighty with what felt like thinly veiled hostility. The awkward moment dragged on until his mother’s cheerful voice cut through the oppressive air.

“Kyan! Come here and say hi to Eilís before she has to go!” Her warm smile radiated innocence, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in her son’s dark gaze.

Then it hit me like a jolt of electricity — my mother was leaving?

The realisation crashed over me like a tidal wave: did this mean I was going to stay here? A whirlwind of questions spiralled in my mind, each one racing to the surface, but no answers came. Yet, a strange thrill surged through my veins. If my mother were leaving, maybe I would finally be free from her watchful, controlling eyes — at least for a while.

As her car drove off into the horizon, leaving no farewell in its wake, I suppressed an eye roll. I sighed and met Kyan’s gaze once more. He was still looking at me as if I had just set his ranch ablaze, his expression a mixture of annoyance and scrutiny. However long I would be trapped here, I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy it, but the prospect of what lay ahead sparked a flicker of excitement in my otherwise uncertain heart.

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The shadow of my mother’s car gradually receded until it vanished from view, and I released a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. This place felt… strange. An exhilarating sense of freedom intertwined with a heavy, suffocating confusion enveloped me, rendering the world around me entirely foreign. There had to be a reason my mother had brought me here without a word of explanation; she had a talent for weaving elaborate scenarios that often left me bewildered.

Everything felt profoundly unsettling about this situation—my thoughts spiralled chaotically until they were abruptly interrupted by the sound of Kyan’s mother, Dakota, calling my name. Her familiar sweetness cut through my haze, and I turned to see her approaching with a warm smile. I recognised her instantly; she had been a constant in my childhood, babysitting me during those long summer days when life felt simpler. Her radiant smile and welcoming demeanour hadn’t changed much over the years; it was a warm reflection of the past that brought a flicker of comfort amidst my internal chaos.

“My, you’re all grown up!” she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with nostalgia and joy. “I haven’t seen you since you were, what, seven?” I nodded politely, suppressing a grin as I caught Kyan's bemused expression—his disbelief was almost amusing.

“And how old are you now?” she pressed, her grin widening as if my answer held some secret significance.

“Seventeen,” I replied, gauging her reaction carefully. People often mistook me for older than my years, but her enthusiasm was infectious.

“Oh, you’re only two years younger than Kyan! He’s nineteen!” she chirped, her excitement nearly overwhelming. I couldn’t help but smile softly; a flicker of amusement ignited as I noticed Kyan’s incredulous stare. It was evident that Dakota was the kind of mother who relished showcasing baby pictures to her son’s new friends, and I was about to become the latest trophy in her collection.

“Well, it’s almost dinner time, so I’ll let you two get to know each other!” she announced with a flourish, turning on her heel and gliding back toward the house. It was clear she had high hopes for a budding friendship between Kyan and me, but I felt doubts creeping in like shadows at dusk. Just as she reached the entrance, she paused, her gaze flicking back to us. “And don’t forget what the Lord says about kindness!”

Her words wrapped around me like chains, tightening at the mention of a name that stirred a sea of memories I wished to forget. The scent of cheap candle wax and bleach flooded my senses, the past flooding back in riotous waves. I could almost hear the echoing chant of my name, whispered like a dark incantation—a reminder of the moments in that suffocating room filled with whispered promises of salvation that turned into suffocating curses.

I had long since renounced any faith I once clung to; so why did hearing His name pierce my chest like a shard of glass? I shouldn't feel so sullied by it anymore. I wanted to laugh the visceral reaction off, to make a joke, perhaps tease the country boy standing beside me. Yet guilt swirled in the depths of my stomach like a heavy ghost, forcing me to fidget with the bracelets on my wrists. Each gentle clink felt like a lifeline to reality—a reminder of who I was now, not the child they had once tried to save. Dakota’s voice radiated a syrupy warmth that prickled my skin, a cruel reminder of how those who once spoke of kindness had twisted it into something unrecognisable. Instinctively, my hands moved to cover the thin scars on my arms, undeniable markers of their warped version of salvation. I needed to regain my composure quickly. I had to say something—anything—to divert his attention. Humour was the safer route, far better than raw honesty.

In Kyan's eyes, I needed to remain cocky, not broken.

“Couldn’t tell you were older since I’m taller,” I smirked, forcing out a jab laced with feigned confidence. But his brow furrowed deep in confusion, and his jaw tightened, a stark contrast to the banter I anticipated. That tension made a knot tighten in my stomach.

“Careful, we aren’t friends yet. And I don’t plan on making friends with someone I’m only gonna know for the summer,” he replied flatly, his tone devoid of the lightness I had hoped for. I couldn’t help but let my grin stretch wider—whatever doubts began to stir regarding my mother’s intentions were smoothed over by a burgeoning curiosity about Kyan.

“So that’s how long I’m staying!” I said, perhaps a bit too eagerly. His blank stare made it clear he hadn’t caught on to my enthusiasm.

“What?” His perplexity echoed the unease swirling in my chest.

“Shame,” I muttered, trying to mask my disappointment. “It’s my eighteenth this month…” I hadn’t craved a grand celebration, but the milestone felt like another balloon slipping through my fingers like the colourful sunset painting the sky outside.

“I’ll show you to your room,” he said matter-of-factly, his voice lacking excitement, as though he were shouldering an undesirable task instead of extending a warm welcome. He spun on his heel, expecting me to be right behind him. I hesitated for a moment, caught between the urge to escape this peculiar environment and the faint hope that following him might lead to a sliver of freedom. After all, my mother had a way of tracking my whereabouts far more efficiently than I liked to think. Swallowing my pride, I fell in step behind him, memories swirling in the back of my mind, heavy like dark storm clouds.

Kyan's monotone voice sliced through the fog of my racing thoughts. “You’re quiet,” he stated bluntly, his gaze fixed straight ahead as if he were addressing a wall rather than me.

“No shit,” I shot back, my sarcasm sharper than I intended. It had become a reflex for me, this quietness — like a protective cloak that allowed me to blend seamlessly into the background, easy to overlook in a world that often felt too bright, too loud.

He held the door open for me with a casual grace that caught me off guard — wow what a gentleman, I thought, even if my scepticism lingered just beneath the surface. As I stepped out onto the porch, I kicked off my shoes instinctively, relishing the coolness of the wooden planks against my bare feet.

“Oh, uh, you don’t have to do all that,” he said, his fingers scratching at the back of his neck in a nervous gesture as he watched me with wide eyes.

“Do what?” I already knew, but I was curious if he’d crack under the pressure of his own discomfort.

“Uh, the shoes thing,” he replied, a hint of awkwardness colouring his voice like a blush.

“Okay…” I finally relented, slipping my shoes back on to keep the peace. His shoulders relaxed slightly at my compliance, and he nodded subtly before leading me upstairs to what I assumed was the guest room.

As we entered, the air was infused with the fresh scent of clean linen, wrapping around me like a warm embrace that made the small space feel inviting. The bed was modestly made, with crisp white sheets neatly tucked in, a plain vanity stood against one wall with a few scattered toiletries hinting at this room's occasional use, and a simple white wardrobe anchored the room’s understated decor.

The window framed an expansive view of the sprawling farm outside, where the golden hues of the sunset spilt in, casting a warm, ethereal glow over the floor near my bed. I placed my bag down gently on the bed and sat beside it, absorbing the tranquil atmosphere, desperate to ground myself in this moment.

Kyan’s gaze lingered on me for just a beat too long, a look of confusion flickering across his features that I couldn’t quite decipher.

“Dinner’s at six,” he stated, his tone sharper than necessary, as if the words carried an unspoken expectation that tugged at the edges of my apprehension.

I nodded once, the gesture feeling almost feeble in the silence that settled between us. With that, he turned on his heel, the door clicking softly shut behind him as he left me alone in the room.

I stretched out across the bed, a heavy sigh escaping my lips, the weight of unease settling over me like a thick blanket.

In less than an hour of being here, I could already sense a malevolence lurking just beyond the edges of my perception, as if unseen eyes were watching from the shadows, waiting and wishing me harm. I fought back tears as haunting memories clawed their way into my mind, refusing to let me forget the ghosts of my past.

This is going to be a long summer.

Chapter Text

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Kyan’s POV:

Sunday 21st June, 6:12pm

Six o’clock arrived faster than I had expected, time slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. I’d spent what felt like an eternity outside, lost in thought, watching the sun sink behind the barn, the sky transforming into a deep, bruised purple that signified the day's end. Each minute seemed to stretch into infinity as I breathed in the crisp evening air.

When I finally stepped back into the house, the familiar warmth of Ma’s voice flowed from the kitchen, bright and cheerful, as if the trials of the world couldn't touch her resilient spirit. The mouthwatering aroma of cottage pie enveloped me first — a rich, savoury comfort encased beneath a fluffy layer of buttery mashed potatoes. She often claimed she had learned to make it from her best friend’s mum, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that city boy’s grandmother had inspired any of it.

And there he was.

Alonzo.

Standing in our kitchen, he exuded an ease that contrasted sharply with my discomfort, chatting animatedly with Ma as if he had belonged to our family his entire life. His knife glided skillfully through the potatoes, movements precise and practised. I froze in the doorway, my heart racing as I took in the scene before me. It was unsettling how easily he seemed to fit into this moment. He actually listened to her, seemingly enjoying the role he played. I had already made up my mind; I wasn't going to get swept up in the charm of this infuriatingly attractive queer. But then he laughed — a low, untroubled sound that unexpectedly tightened the muscles in my chest. I quickly looked away, desperate to shake off the unfamiliar stirring of emotions.

“Oh, Kyan! You’re finally here!” Ma exclaimed, her voice slicing through my internal conflict and brightening the room. “Go get your siblings.”

I turned and called up the stairs, “Mae, Abby, Skye! Dinner!” My voice echoed through the house, and I hurried back to the kitchen. Upon my return, I found Ma setting an extra chair beside mine, a small gesture I had come to expect.

Alonzo slid effortlessly into the seat next to me, a wide, polite smile gracing his lips. “Thank you, Mrs Kenza. This looks amazing,” he said, his tone dripping with effortless charm.

I jabbed my fork into the pie, irritation and frustration simmering beneath the surface. “It’s not that fancy. Just dinner.” Ma shot me a look, the kind that said, Don't start, and I felt a surge of annoyance that Alonzo’s smile remained unfazed.

“Still beats takeout every night,” he replied, his casual tone only fueling my irritation. That city boy probably pictured us living off takeout alone, painting a rough stereotype of country life in his mind.

My younger sisters giggled at something he said about missing the incessant traffic of the city. It was absurd how quickly he had captured their attention. Traitors. I cast another glance at him — his sleeves rolled up, revealing sharp wrist bones beneath sun-kissed skin, a thin scar near his thumb hinting at a life that balanced physicality with the frenetic pace of city living.

With a mouth full of food, I attempted to stifle the swirling thoughts in my head. Ma continued her enthusiastic conversational volley, asking him about school, grades, and his aspirations. I barely registered her words; only fragments reached my ears through the sound of clattering forks. Something about a band caught my attention, intriguing yet irritating. Then Abby, that sweet little troublemaker, piped up,

“So are you and Kyan friends now?”

I choked, a violent, unexpected bout of coughing erupting from my throat. Ma rushed to pat my back, her expression a mix of concern and amusement. Alonzo sat there, unfazed, one eyebrow raised as if he could read the discomfort I was desperately trying to hide.

He grinned, his eyes shifting toward me with a teasing glint. “Working on it, I guess.”

And I hated how my chest fluttered uncomfortably at that, an unsettling tension I couldn’t seem to shake off, a reluctant stirring that refused to be suppressed.

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I finally stopped choking after a while, the embarrassment washing over me like a cold wave. I sat back up, glancing over at Alonzo, who was unbothered, casually chewing his food with complete indifference. Huh. I didn’t expect that reaction from the city boy…

By the time twenty minutes had passed, everyone had finished their meal. The kitchen was filled with a warm, savoury aroma of gravy mingling with the sharp scent of dish soap; late summer air wafted through a cracked window, carrying with it an odd blend of comfort and confinement that always struck me. That stupid city boy offered to help wash the dishes. God, what a suck-up! Ma declined, but he insisted with a charming smile.

After a bit of back-and-forth, he finally relented. I noticed him laughing and chatting with Abby, who seemed unusually animated. I mean, they were the same age, but I didn’t expect this level of familiarity between them.

“Why don’t you boys sit on the porch and get to know each other!” Ma chirped cheerfully while scrubbing pots and pans. Alonzo shot me a sideways glance, eyebrow raised, and a sinking feeling settled in my stomach. Don’t tell me he’s actually considering saying yes. I swear he’s just trying to get under my skin at this point.

“No thanks, Ma…” I said, forcing out the fakest yawn I could muster, desperately hoping to sell the act. “I’m tired…”

“Alright, you go get some rest. You’ll be showing Alonzo the ropes tomorrow since he’ll be helping with ranch work while he’s here.” She sounded genuinely disappointed by my refusal, and I almost felt guilty. But then I remembered her insistence for me to engage with the city boy.

Wait. Alonzo’s helping with ranch work?

A smug grin spread across my face. This boy’s life is about to become a living hell.

I glanced at him again, and he remained unfazed, still giggling with Abby like they were sharing the world’s most hilarious secret. I rolled my eyes and trudged over to the stairs, deep resentment simmering within me. I had never felt such intense disdain for someone before. He was just so utterly… infuriating. My cheeks burned with frustration; I desperately needed to escape for a moment.

But how? I had never snuck out before—I didn’t need to! Ma wasn’t overly strict about me taking walks, but she detests lies, even harmless ones like claiming I was tired when, really, I was trying to avoid the city boy. He’d probably try to kiss me, or worse!

Sighing, I opened the window, glancing down at the ground. Too high.

“Sneaking out?” Of course, it was him.

Alonzo leaned casually against the doorframe, picking at his nails as if he had all the time in the world, like he’d been waiting to deliver that exact line.

“If you jump from there, it’ll hurt like hell. Even if you manage not to break both legs, where you’ll land is right in front of the kitchen window. Someone would definitely hear you. Plus, you left the door wide open—anyone could have seen you halfway out the window…”

“I didn’t ask for a critique,” I snapped through gritted teeth, fully aware of how right he was, but unwilling to concede.

“If you really wanted to sneak out, I suggest using the back door,” he said, his tone annoyingly nonchalant.

“And how would I do that?” I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration as his eyes flicked to the empty glass on my bedside table, undoubtedly already plotting the way out.

“Slide down the bannister as quietly as possible and take that glass with you,” he said, pointing at it.

“If anyone hears or sees you, just say you were filling it up.”

“And where on earth am I supposed to put it when I get outside?”

“Just take it with you! If anyone sees you when you come back, say you were just getting a glass of water. Simple as that.”

Ugh, I hated that he made perfect sense. He pushed off the door frame and sauntered away, as if he hadn’t just handed me the key to sneaking out successfully. Before I could grab my glass, he paused.

“Also, don’t actually slide down the bannister. You’ll look ridiculous, and people will start calling you Dramatic Kyle or whatever silly nickname you’ll end up with. I will never stop laughing.”

I nearly bit him. “My name is Kyan,” I shot back, irritation bubbling to the surface.

“Right. Kyan. Dramatic Kyan,” he smirked. For a fleeting moment, there was a glimmer of something genuine in his expression, something almost friendly. I hated him for that, too.

With a sigh, I swallowed my pride. I had to follow his plan; it was my only chance of sneaking out without getting caught.

Down in the kitchen, Ma’s cheerful humming had faded, and the laughter of Mae and Skye was muffled into the background. The clattering of dishes felt louder than usual. I eased the back door open, and the summer heat enveloped me like a thick blanket—both inviting and daring. The yard was fragrant with hay, freshly cut grass, and a hint of sweetness from the pies Ma had baked earlier. She only made those when someone was visiting. I slipped into the night, padding softly along the side of the house toward the shadowy gate. Just five steps from the porch, I heard someone clear their throat.

“You’re really going for the dramatic escape through the back door with a glass in hand?” Alonzo stood there, half-cast in moonlight with his sleeves rolled up, holding the very glass I’d nearly forgotten. He even had a flashlight, which he was wielding like a ridiculous lighthouse. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You followed me?” My voice was unexpectedly quiet in the vastness of the night.

“Not followed. I—” he shrugged nonchalantly. “I was finishing unpacking, thought I’d get some air. Then I heard you.” His calmness was maddening, and it only added to my irritation. “Figured I’d see how the world’s most dramatic person sneaks out.”

“You’re such a—” I began, but words faltered as I took in the softer angles of his face illuminated by the porch light. In that moment, I noticed the small smudge on his cheek, remnants of whatever he’d contributed to dinner. He didn’t look like a city boy at that moment. He looked… real.

“Here,” he said, taking a tentative step forward and presenting the glass like a peace offering, the dim light from the porch casting soft shadows that highlighted the contours of his outstretched fingers. “You forgot it. I’ll walk with you, not at you. I can help if something goes wrong.”

“No,” I snapped, the word tumbling out before I could rein it in. Did he really think he could play the hero — pat me on the back, try to steal a kiss under the moonlight, and charm me with his city-boy bravado? The very thought made my insides twist in irritation. My immediate impulse was to lash out, to grab his unruly hair, or at least yank out those ridiculous piercings. “I don’t want your help.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he absentmindedly turned the glass between his fingers, the cold surface catching the starlight and reflecting tiny shards of brightness into the night. For a brief moment, silence enveloped us, the air thick with unspoken tension. Distant sounds lingered — the lonely bark of a dog in the far-off fields, the gentle hum of a tractor working late into the night, and the occasional twang of a country song drifting through the open windows of a nearby house. Each sound only highlighted my sense of discomfort, as if the world was acutely aware of how exposed I felt standing there with him.

“You do know you could’ve just asked Dakota,” he said finally, his tone much softer than before, almost gentle. “She wouldn’t chain you to the porch just for saying you’re tired and want to go for a walk.”

“Maybe I just didn’t want to talk to her right now,” I muttered, the truth spilling uncomfortably into the air between us. I didn’t want anyone probing into what I was doing or why I even needed to breathe outside for a moment. I didn’t want to explain myself; complications were the last thing I needed. He stepped closer, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes — hazel or green; I couldn’t quite tell, which only added to my annoyance.

“Fine. You want to be dramatic, be dramatic. But if you’re planning on climbing over the back fence, just don’t stab yourself on the barbed wire.”

“You really think I’m going to cut myself?” I shot back, clinging desperately to the bravado I barely felt.

“No, I think you’ll just exaggerate it later.” He flashed a slight smile, one that should have ignited my anger but, instead, sent a confusing flutter through my chest. I shoved the glass into my pocket, searching for something to do with my hands to mask the strange feelings.

“Fine. Walk with me then. But don’t get attached.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and disarming, easing some of the tension lingering between us. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As we began to walk side by side down the gravel lane, I was surprised by how he maintained a cautious distance between us, as if he felt I might be contagious with whatever mood had gripped me. Shockingly, it didn’t bother me as much as I had expected. He chattered about insignificant things — the way the city heat felt different, how his best friend’s toast had been utterly inedible, and the ongoing saga of his failed attempts to keep a cactus alive. He spoke with a casual ease, as if he didn’t care whether I liked him or not, yet I could sense his slim hope that perhaps I would. It was infuriating and oddly… intriguing.

When the moon slipped behind a cloud, our shadows intertwined on the ground, and I found myself resenting him a little less than I had just five minutes ago. Not a great deal, but some.

I silently promised myself that I’d devise a grand plan tomorrow to make him regret ever being born — perhaps assigning him chore duty without sunscreen or ensuring he dealt with the most obstinate cow first. That would teach him a lesson. For now, though, I resolved to be slightly lenient. I allowed him to walk me to the old wooden fence, where he hummed that annoyingly catchy pop song Abby loved. My anger felt diminutive, like a bruise I kept testing to see if it still throbbed.

He paused at the fence, tilting his head slightly as if considering something profound. “Goodnight, Kyan.”

“You’re not coming back?” I asked, the question escaping before I could disguise the unexpected flicker of hope in my voice.

“Don't get your hopes up. I need to be on my own for a bit.”

“‘Kay… Night...”

I crept through the back door and tiptoed cautiously up the stairs, my heart racing with a confusing cocktail of emotions. Inside my room, I closed the door behind me, the soft click echoing in the stillness. My hands carried the lingering scents of soap, hay, and that insufferable boy’s cheap cologne. Did he grasp my hand without realising it? I was right! That annoyingly persistent dick was trying to make a move!

Summer was going to be pure hell for him.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Alonzo’s POV:

Dakota and I were immersed in an animated discussion about her grandmother’s beloved pie recipe, our voices rising and falling in excitement as we exchanged tips and secrets on achieving the ideal baking time. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar lingered in the air, enveloping us like a warm hug. Suddenly, a sound broke through our chatter — heavy, deliberate footsteps advancing from behind. They felt strikingly familiar yet ominous, like the foreboding rumble of thunder preceding an unexpected storm.

“Oh, Kyan! You’re finally here! Go get your siblings,” Dakota called out, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm, instantly redirecting my attention.

As I turned to glance over my shoulder, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Kyan. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly against his chest, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. It was as if I were a forgotten piece of ripe fruit left too long on the counter, and he was meticulously contemplating whether I had gone past my prime or still held some value.

I recognised that piercing look all too well — an expression etched into my mind from the camp. A knot of anxiety twisted in my stomach, but I gathered my resolve, forcing my tone to remain breezy and casual. “Plates go here?” I gestured toward the makeshift dining area set up in the corner, hoping to ease the tension.

Kyan remained silent, the air around us charged, brimming with unspoken words that felt heavy enough to slice through the thick humidity of late summer. The palpable tension cast a shadow over the cheerful atmosphere as Dakota instinctively positioned me beside Kyan, her unspoken attempt to bridge what felt like an insurmountable distance between us.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs Kenza,” I said warmly, hoping to melt the icy chill that had settled in our shared space as we took our seats.

“It’s not that fancy. Just dinner,” Kyan replied, the edge to his tone suggesting he found my gratitude unwarranted or somehow insulting.

“Still better than takeout every night,” I countered, striving for a lighthearted tone to break the ice, even if I felt like I was chipping away at a stone wall.

Kyan shot me a sidelong glance, his expression sharp and defensive, as if my words had afflicted a wound he preferred to keep hidden. Yet, despite this, I found the corners of my mouth turning upward into a smile that felt dangerous, like poking at an old bruise just to see if it still hurt.

As conversation ebbed and flowed around us, I filled the gaps with tales from my band, recounting school events and dreams for the future — the mundane chatter that often fills the void when familiarity falters. I shared a silly anecdote about adjusting to the newfound silence of my surroundings, the absence of the usual city traffic. Kyan’s sisters giggled at the story, their laughter ringing out like bright chimes in a gentle breeze — a small warmth blossoming in my chest despite Kyan’s evident displeasure, the knife of his fork stabbing at his food with unrelenting force as if he were trying to conquer the resentment festering inside.

Determined not to let his grumpiness deter me, I maintained my smile; if I couldn’t win him over, I could at least provoke a reaction from him. Just then, one of the girls — Abby, I think — leaned in closer toward us, her bright eyes twinkling with mischief as she asked, “So, are you and Kyan friends now?” Her innocent question hung in the air like the vibrant burst of sunlight slicing through a gloomy cloud.

Kyan’s response was immediate and dramatic; he choked on his food, the sound alarming enough that Dakota swiftly reached over to pat his back, concern etched upon her features. I stifled a giggle, barely managing to suppress a grin at his evident discomfort.

“Uh, we’re working on it,” I stammered, meeting his gaze directly. “I guess.”

In that brief moment, I glimpsed something unexpected in Kyan’s eyes — a flicker of vulnerability hidden beneath his typical scowl, a softness that was quickly overshadowed as he averted his gaze back to his plate. The fleeting moment faded into the ambient noise, lost among the clinking of forks and cheerful chatter that enveloped us.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

After what felt like an eternity, Kyan finally managed to stop choking, his face flushed as he jokingly called me dramatic. I continued eating, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth as I stifled laughter. It was entertaining to see him so vexed over something so simple; I relished the knowledge that my presence irked him, making this moment all the more delightful.

As the minutes slipped by, the kitchen transformed into a symphony of clattering dishes, signalling that everyone was finishing their meals. I jumped in eagerly to help Dakota stack the plates, our fingers occasionally brushing against each other like a gentle promise, moving in a synchronised dance toward the sink. I offered to tackle the washing up, but she declined with a cheerful shake of her head, her determination evident.

My insistence persisted, but soon enough, I realised it was a battle I couldn’t win. Defeated, I retreated to a nearby stool tucked away in the corner of the bustling kitchen, becoming a spectator to the lively aftermath of our dinner.

Abby, sensing my retreat, sauntered over and perched herself on the counter beside me, her bright eyes sparkling with laughter. We fell into an effortless conversation, connecting as if we were old friends rediscovering common ground. We bonded over our favourite music, sharing names of artists we adored, and swapped the titles of shows that had us howling at absurd moments. It was comforting to find at least one person here with whom I could truly connect. Within the span of just an hour, we shared secrets and giggles—though I kept my darkest secret close to my chest, locking it away for the time being.

“Why don’t you boys plop yourselves on the porch and get to know each other better?” Dakota suggested, her voice ringing with enthusiasm as she scrubbed a stubborn pot, her smile infectious.

“No thanks, ma…” Kyan replied, forcing out an exaggerated yawn that was so overplayed it bordered on comedic. It was the kind of yawn that anyone could see right through—especially Dakota. “I’m tired…”

“Okay, go get some rest, then. You’ll need your energy for showing Alonzo the ropes tomorrow. He’ll be helping out with ranch work while he’s here,” she answered, her voice laced with a hint of disappointment. I could sense her awareness of the underlying tensions between Kyan and me; she knew that we were as different as oil and water. I felt a prick of guilt but reminded myself that our frequent clashes stemmed from irreconcilable differences.

With a furtive glance over his shoulder, Kyan slipped away, his intentions cloaked in secrecy. I turned back to Abby, and we shared another round of soft laughter, the kind that felt like a comfortable blanket on a chilly night. Eventually, I decided it was time to call it a night. Tomorrow promised a whirlwind of activity, and sleep felt like a long-awaited escape.

As I climbed the creaky stairs, the familiar scent of the wooden bannister mixed with the lingering aroma of dinner. I passed by Kyan’s room and noticed a peculiar sight—he was half-draped out the window, an awkward attempt at a stealthy exit. I leaned against the doorframe, raising my eyebrows in amusement.

“Sneaking out?” I asked flatly, unable to mask a hint of sarcasm. He dramatically sighed, the kind of exasperation that only confirmed I had him pegged.

Feigning boredom, I inspected my nails, pretending his predicament didn't interest me at all. “If you jump from there, it’s going to hurt like a bitch. If you somehow manage not to break both legs, you’d land right in front of the kitchen window. Trust me, someone would hear you. Plus, you left the door wide open—anyone could’ve seen you half out the window. You’re not exactly being discreet.”

“I didn’t ask for a critique,” he shot back, though neither of us could deny I was spot on. (I usually am.)

“If you really want to make a clean getaway, try the back door,” I suggested, watching as he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. I cast my gaze toward the glass gathering dust on his bedside table.

“Slide down the bannister as quietly as you can and take that with you,” I encouraged, nodding toward the glass. “If anyone hears or sees you, just say you were filling it up. Simple, right?”

“And where am I supposed to put it when I get out?” he snapped, crossing his arms defensively.

“Take it with you! If someone sees you coming back, you can just say you were getting some water — easy as pie.”

His irritation was palpable; he knew deep down I had a point, and it irked him to no end. Finally, he reached for the glass, but just to ensure he understood my sarcasm, I added, “Oh, and seriously, don’t actually slide down the bannister. You’ll end up looking like some melodramatic character — people will start calling you Dramatic Kyle or something equally ridiculous. I’ll never let that go.”

“My name’s Kyan,” he barked back, as if I didn’t already know. It was amusing to see him riled up.

“Right, Kyan. Dramatic Kyan,” I teased as I pushed off the doorframe and began walking toward my room. I stifled a laugh as I watched him slip out, only to realise he’d forgotten the glass he was supposed to be carrying. He had one job! Once he was out of sight, I stormed into his room, pocketed the glass, and grabbed the flashlight from my bag. I had a plan to scare him. With a deep breath, I made my way downstairs and out the front door, skipping the more complicated back route.

Settling into the porch swing, I let the night wrap around me like a familiar old quilt. He was taking forever, but eventually, the sound of footsteps reached my ears. So much for the stealthy exit.

I straightened up, leaning against one of the sturdy wooden pillars on the porch. As he drew closer, I cleared my throat to get his attention. He jumped slightly but managed to hold back a scream. Clearly, he wasn’t prepared for an audience. “You’re actually going with the dramatic escape through the back door and carrying a glass?” I called out, raising my flashlight to illuminate his face. “Didn’t expect you to actually go through with it.”

“You followed me out here?” His voice wavered slightly, a flicker of nervousness creeping in. Had he never attempted this before?

“Not exactly followed—I was just finishing unpacking and wanted some fresh air. But then I heard your home invasion rehearsals…” I shrugged. “Figured I’d see how the world’s most dramatic person sneaks out.”

“You’re such a—” He began but abruptly stopped, staring at me with an expression that was almost bewildered, as if I were some exquisite piece of art he was scrutinising in a gallery.

“Here,” I said, stepping toward him, glass in hand. “You forgot this. I can walk with you, not at you. If things go south, I can help.”

“Absolutely not! I don’t want your help,” he snapped, his resolve as clear as the night sky above us.

I didn’t press further; I knew it would be futile. I turned the glass over in my hand, letting the cool night air envelop us in a shroud of stillness. We shared a brief moment—simply listening to the sounds around us: a distant dog barking, the soft rumble of a tractor ploughing a field late into the night, and the sweet, comforting notes of a country tune drifting from a radio somewhere down the lane.

“You know you could’ve just asked Dakota, right? She’s not the kind of person to lock you to the porch for saying you’re tired and then wanting to go for a walk,” I finally broke the silence, my tone softer now.

“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to her right now,” he murmured under his breath, his words barely breaking through the tranquillity of the night.

For what? Proposing the idea of us getting to know each other?

I took a step closer, the warm glow of the evening light casting long shadows around us, creating an almost intimate atmosphere. My presence loomed over him slightly, heightening the tension between us. “Fine. You want to be dramatic, go ahead. But if you’re going to climb over the back fence, at least try not to stab yourself on the barbed wire.”

He raised an eyebrow, a mix of incredulity and amusement playing across his features. “You really think I’ll cut myself?”

“No,” I replied, letting a playful smile dance on my lips. “I think you’ll probably exaggerate it later. That’s more your style.”

With a slight huff, he shoved the glass into the pocket of his worn jeans, the fabric whispering against his movements. “Fine. Walk with me then, but don’t get attached.”

I giggled softly, the sound airy and light in the stillness of the dusk. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back, the teasing in my tone a thin veil over the whirlpool of emotions simmering just beneath the surface.

We strolled side by side down the weathered lane, the pavement warm beneath our feet from the day’s lingering heat. I maintained a slight distance, acutely aware of how he perceived me. This slight space felt necessary, especially considering he'd likely already convinced himself that I was hitting on him. I wasn’t about to feed that assumption. Instead, I filled the air with trivial chatter —rambling about the peculiarities of city heat, sharing how my best friend's burnt toast experiments were nothing short of culinary disasters, and recounting the saga of my failed mission to keep a cactus alive. I didn’t care whether he liked me or not; the thrill of teasing him with my presence felt far too enticing to resist.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and took my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. In that moment, it felt as though he had opened a pit of hell in my stomach. His touch was a paradox — soothing yet deeply unsettling. His palm was smooth and warm, yet calloused in a way that hinted at unspoken stories — just like his voice, which held a rough edge that intrigued me. The longer we held hands, the more that pit in my stomach expanded, and guilt twisted inside me like a knife, relentless and sharp.

To distract myself from the turmoil, I began to hum a cheerful melody, one that Abby and I used to share idiosyncratic dance parties to—an infectious tune that flooded my mind with happier moments, hopefully strong enough to combat the chaos bubbling within me. I manoeuvred him gently against the fence, tilting my head back to look up at him, catching the fading light in his eyes that seemed to flicker with emotion.

“Good night, Kyan,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, yet I could feel the weight of my words in the stillness around us.

“You not coming back?” His voice held a tremor of hopefulness, his eyes searching mine intensely as if seeking answers to questions unspoken.

“Don’t get your hopes up. I need to be on my own for a bit.”

“Kay…Night…” His voice trailed off, laced with disappointment, and I could almost see the heavy sigh that accompanied his groan.

I spun around, unwilling to face the expression on his face as he attempted to hop the fence. A shaky breath escaped me; I realised I had been holding it for far too long. He probably hadn’t even registered the fact that he had unconsciously held my hand while we walked. I could see it in the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead under the fading sun—he was scared. But considering how much he already seemed to dislike me, I could only imagine how he would react once the truth settled in, and I knew I needed to brace myself for whatever fallout might come next.

Chapter Text

Monday 22nd June: 6:15AM

Kyan's POV:

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

My alarm clock screamed as if it had a personal grudge against me. I groaned loudly, dragging myself out of bed with a sluggish, uncoordinated motion, then stretched till my joints popped loudly in protest. Sleep had been strangely restless — vivid, disorienting dreams that I definitely didn’t want to unpack — but at least it was a peaceful morning after all that chaos yesterday.

I quickly threw on whatever clothes I could grab from the chair — a faded grey hoodie and jeans with a tear at the knee. Didn’t care how I looked — not like that Aiden kid. I murmured my morning prayer, rubbing my tired eyes, and headed for the guest bedroom.

I knocked once, ready to raise hell if he was still passed out.

But nope. There he was — sitting cross-legged on the battered mattress, already dressed in a worn hoodie and jeans two sizes too big, phone in hand. And damn, he looked rough — dark circles shadowing his eyes, face pale and drawn, like he hadn’t slept at all. His expression was a weary, sunken look, like his soul had temporarily left his body.

“You look rough,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“No shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse, as if he’d been shouting all night.

I almost felt bad. Almost.

“C’mon, we got work to do.”

I grabbed a nearly stale granola bar from the cluttered nightstand — the worst flavour, of course, blueberry with chunks of dried fruit — and tossed it his way. He caught it awkwardly, as if it were a foreign object.

“If you’re wondering where everyone is: Ma’s at work, Mae and Skye are at camp, and Abby’s probably off with her friend.” I explained.

He trailed behind me as we stepped outside into the yard. The morning air hit us instantly — warm, humid, thick with the smell of freshly cut grass and damp dirt.

“Right, Aiden—”

“Uh, Alonzo,” he corrected, shooting me a quick, defiant glance.

I shot him a look. “Right. Alonzo.”

He didn’t even flinch. City boy’s got guts, I’ll give him that.

“First job: that fence over there.” I pointed toward where one post leaned dangerously — like it had given up on life after years of neglect.

He squinted skeptically. “You mean we’re fixing it?”

“Yup. The ground’s loose around the base. We need to pack it in tightly.” I crouched down, kicking at the loose dirt with my boot. “We’ll have to tamp it down firmly.”

“With…our hands?”

I grinned. “Nah. With your fancy city shoes. You got boots, right?”

He looked down at his spotless, shiny trainers — still pristine, with no dirt or mud on them. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Guess not. Alright then, grab that post.”

He crouched beside me, awkward as hell, trying to steady the leaning fence while I worked on the base. His hand brushed mine once — just barely — and he flinched like the dirt burning his skin.

“Okay, now stomp it down,” I said, grinning.

He hesitated, then gave the world’s weakest stomp — a tiny smush of his foot that did nothing.

“What, scared of the dirt? C’mon, harder!”

He rolled his eyes but then stomped again — this time with real effort, dirt spraying up onto his jeans, a look of reluctant determination on his face. He groaned. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” I teased. “You look better all messy.”

He glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly, but his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough.

When we finished, I leaned on the fence, looking proud. “Not bad, for a city boy.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” he said, voice a bit more confident.

“Good. Meant it that way.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re actually complimenting me? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I said, already walking off. “We’re not done yet.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I led him into the barn, the heavy wooden door screeching loudly as it swung open, protesting the movement. The smell hit us immediately — a mixture of stables’ scent: hay, manure, and damp wood. Alonzo gagged slightly, and I just laughed.

“Better get used to it, city boy!” I teased.

He rolled his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. Is he actually going to help, or just stand there? I didn’t look up.

“Are you going to stand there all day or actually do something?” I asked flatly, amusement tingling in my voice.

I showed him the stall, where the straw bedding had been trampled into a sloppy mess — clearly slept on all night by the horse. “The horse slept all night in that. We dig out the compacted stuff, lay down fresh bedding. Easy.”

He gave me a disapproving look, clearly doubting how easy this was.

He tried to mimic my motions — stabbing at the straw with a pitchfork, scooping up manure and bedding — but his aim was all off. He launched the fork, and it landed right on his shoe with a dull thud.

He muttered something under his breath, probably a curse, but I didn't catch it.

I snorted, amused. “Breathe through your knees, not your shoulders,” I said, pretending to be serious. I was just making up nonsense to throw him off.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” he replied, voice flat but amused.

I stepped behind him, noticing how cold his hands felt — probably from nerves or fatigue. I adjusted his grip on the fork, steadying it.

He straightened too quickly and misjudged a toss — a clump of straw and manure flying up and splattering right onto his shiny shoe.

I absolutely lost it — laughter bursting out uncontrollably. It was too funny! I crouched down, wiping straw off his shoe with my thumb.

“There, not fatal,” I joked.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, a hint of a grin creeping onto his face.

“Only ‘cause you're dramatic,” I teased.

I tossed him a hay bale, which he nearly dropped. He caught it with exaggerated care, like it were a fragile object.

Eventually, the stall looked much cleaner. I tossed the pitchfork into the corner with a satisfied nod.

“Not bad for a city boy,” I said, voice teasing but softer than before.

He rolled his eyes but I could see his grin creeping through.

Suddenly, a faint whine echoed from the next stall — Ember, the spirited mare.

“That’s Ember,” I said, nodding toward her stall. “She gets fussy if she doesn’t get attention after cleaning. Want to learn how to groom her?”

“Define ‘wanna,’” he said, smirking.

My grin widens. “Too late, city boy. You’re drafted.”

I opened the stall door, and the warm smell of hay and silky fur greeted us. “Start at the neck,” I instructed, handing him a curry comb. “Circular motions. Don’t press like you’re filing nails.”

He rolled his eyes. “Am I being stereotyped right now?” Well, boys like him. They're all the same, but I'd like to see him try.

“Prove me wrong.”

He followed the instructions, leaning in closer to Ember. I hovered nearby, ensuring he was doing it right.

“Your shoulders are tense. Loosen up. Let your wrist do the work,” I suggested.

He tried, and the brushing became more fluid, a small smile creeping onto his face. Ember snorted contentedly, leaning into the grooming, clearly approving. The quiet was comfortable — filled with soft sounds: the rhythmic brushing, rustling straw, Ember’s gentle breathing.

Suddenly, Ember pressed her head down and nudged him softly. She was showing her approval. The action threw him off balance momentarily, but my arm was already there, steadying him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he responded, nodding, though the look in his eyes lingered — the same one he gave when Ma mentioned the Lord. It seemed he was processing something deeper.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

I shrugged. “Good hands. Keep this up, and maybe you’ll stop being allergic to real life.”

He snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

I laughed. “Fine, but next time you wear something ridiculous, I’m making you groom in it,” I warned.

“Fine by me,” he replied, a genuine smile breaking through.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Monday 22nd June: 12:43AM

Alonzo’s POV:

After an hour of walking along the dirt path through the woods, I sneak back into the house quietly. I stumble over to my bed, my knees buckling slightly from exhaustion, and collapse onto it with a heavy sigh, not bothering to change into my usual soft, flannel sleepwear. I toss and turn restlessly, feeling the throbbing in my muscles. Why can’t I sleep? I sigh deeply and grunt softly, my mind racing and refusing the rest it desperately needs. The sheets feel oppressively heavy, as if coated with damp sweat, and the air in the room is unnervingly still, with no breeze to stir it. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like the darkness around me pulses with its own heartbeat, slow and rhythmic. How can his touch — so gentle yet intense —make me feel both safe and guilty at the same time?

Thoughts of the camp start to creep into my mind: the lingering bruises on my arms, the echoing screams from nights past, the scars hidden beneath my clothes. All these bruises, faded years ago into faint purple marks, but the shame — the shame of everything I’ve endured — never disappeared.

Would staying here be a repeat of the camp? Or was that the reason my mother sent me here — to be what she called “fixed”

I checked the time — 2 AM? I had snuck back in at midnight...

God, I wish I could sleep — my mind was a whirlwind of anxious thoughts and exhaustion. My pillow started to feel wet — tears I hadn’t realised I’d shed ran down my face in silent streams. I moved my pillow to muffle my sobs, trying to hide the sound. I felt so pathetic — my chest was tight and sore. Why did I have to be like this? Why couldn't I just be normal, like everyone else?

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I groaned and hit the stop button on my dimly lit phone, its screen casting a faint glow in the dark room. Surely it couldn’t already be six? I slowly lifted my head from the pillow and looked out the small window beside my bed. The bright, orange hues of dawn spilt over the horizon. I checked the time again — 6 AM?! I slammed my face back into my pillow and let out a huge groan, feeling the weight of sleeplessness wash over me. It was the time I usually get up. I forced myself to get out of bed, stumbling across the room to my vanity table. I roughly wiped at my puffy, red-rimmed eyes with a tissue, but it wasn't enough to hide the dark circles. Frustrated, I grabbed some makeup — foundation, concealer, a dash of mascara, an attempt to mask the exhaustion. I looked so…fake, like a painted doll. I gazed into the mirror for too long, unable to bear the hollow, tired eyes staring back at me. I had to look away. I didn’t bother doing anything else —what’s the point?

I rummaged through my closet and picked out an outfit — something plain and boring, yet practical for the ranch work ahead. A simple black crop top and a slightly loose fit, paired with baggy grey jeans that had seen better days. I looked okay, I guess. I threw on a hoodie over the top — soft, slightly stretched out, with the hood pulled up to hide my messy hair. Kyan was bound to make a homophobic remark, and I just couldn’t deal with that today.

I made my bed hastily, the sheets tangled and creased, and sat on the edge. I unlocked my phone and scrolled through a few messages from my friends, seeking some comfort or distraction. After about half an hour, Kyan gently pushed my bedroom door open, his head peeking inside. The look he gave me made my stomach flip — a complicated mixture of disdain, disgust, and something softer, almost pity.

“You’re up?” he asked casually.

I nodded, glancing at him through my tired eyes — what does it look like?

“You look rough…” he added, and I couldn’t help but let out a small, bitter, tired laugh. His voice still sounded like last night; Rough and slightly soft around the edges.

“No shit,” I muttered.

I don’t think he expected me to laugh; I think he wanted to offend me, to cut deeper.

“C’mon, we’ve got work to do,” he said, stepping fully into the room and heading downstairs. I followed him, my feet dragging.

The scent from the kitchen was absent — no faint smell of coffee or breakfast, just silence. Kyan grabbed a granola bar from the counter and tossed it toward me. I couldn't eat it — it was blueberry. I'm allergic to blueberries. But I didn't want to make a fuss so I just stuffed it in my pocket and kept my mouth shut.

“If you're wondering where everyone is, Ma’s at work, Mae and Skye are at summer camp, and I think Abby is out with her friend.”

I nodded silently, noticing a strange tension in the air — something about Kyan’s expression, the way he looked at the barn ahead, as if he knew some secret I didn’t. No one ever spoke about their father, and I had yet to meet him. I decided not to push that subject. Kyan glanced back to make sure I was following, then jerked his chin toward the weathered, old barn. Its wooden planks were covered in peeling paint, and the corners sagged from age. The hinges on the door protested loudly as he pushed it open.

“Right, Aidan,” he said.

“Uh, Alonzo…” I corrected trying my absolute hardest to sound confident, but he scowled.

“Right, Alonzo,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “First order of business — we gotta fix that fence over there.” His tone was softer but still carried a hint of sass. He pointed toward the broken section of the fence — wooden planks leaning and splintered, one post swaying dangerously in the wind, creaking like it was pleading for mercy.

Kyan kicked at the dirt near the base of the fence, huffing out a breath. “Well, there’s your problem,” he said, crouching down. “Ground’s all loose. We’ll have to pack it back in.”

I blinked at him, fiddling with the hoop on my lip, feeling overwhelmed. “You mean — like…pack dirt? With our hands?” I asked, voice uncertain.

Kyan looked up, a smirk tugging at his lips, the kind that made me want to rip each individual hair from his scalp. “Nah, with your fancy city shoes. You do have boots on, right?”

I looked down at my trainers — cheap, slightly scuffed, the laces coming loose. Fuck. I knew I should’ve worn my boots. Now I just looked like an idiot. Kyan laughed, unexpectedly, a low, genuine sound that echoed across the yard. I hadn’t thought he’d show any emotion other than sarcasm. His laugh was easy, almost musical, yet there was mockery beneath it.

“Hm, guess not,” he said standing up. “Alright then, just grab that post and hold it steady while I dig around a bit.”

I crouched beside him, awkwardly gripping the fence post, my fingers rough against the splintered wood. Kyan moved quickly, loosening the dirt with a shovel. His muscles flexed smoothly under the bright sun, sweat beading on his forehead. I just pretended not to notice.

When the hole was deep enough, Kyan nodded. “Okay, straighten it up — yeah, like that — now pack the dirt back in. Real tight.” I stomped my foot down, feeling a hint of pride in my step — I thought I did quite well. “What, you scared the dirt's gonna bite you? C’mon! Harder!” he teased, low and mocking.

I rolled my eyes and stomped again, more forcefully. My shoes sank into the soft earth, dirt dusting my jeans and hoodie. I groaned.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Hm, maybe a little,” he replied, teasing but his tone was warmer. “You look better all messy.” I froze. My cheeks burned — what did he mean by that? But he was already patting the dirt into place like nothing had happened. I guessed he didn’t mean it that way, right?

Finally, after we finished, the fence stood straight again, sturdy and unwavering. Kyan leaned against it, part of me secretly hoping he’d fall through it.

“Not bad, for a city boy at least,” he said with a grin.

I pretended the ground was his face when stomping on it, to be honest, it gave me a satisfying rush. I wouldn’t tell him that, though.

“I’ll take it as a compliment…” he pushed off the fence, the rough texture scraping his palms.

“Good, meant it that way.”

“You're complimenting me? Never thought I’d see the day…”

“Just don’t get used to it,” he said with a smirk, waving his hand behind his shoulder as if dismissing a casual remark. “C’mon. We’re not done.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

He led me into the barn this time, the massive sliding door screeching loudly like a banshee in the night, metal hinges protesting. The moment I stepped inside, the smell hit me — my best guess was that it was a pungent mixture of shit, damp hay, aged wood, and melting leather — it instantly made me gag.

“Better get used to it, city boy!” he teased with a mischievous grin. I hated it when he called me that. I rolled my eyes and held my breath to ward off the nauseating fumes. I sighed heavily.

Kyan doesn’t look up from his pitchfork, its handle coarse and splintered from frequent use. “You gonna stand there or actually help?” he asks, voice flat but tinged with amusement.

I tighten my jacket, feeling the coarse fabric scratch my neck. I regret every life choice that led me to this straw-dusted corner of the barn.

Kyan shows me the stall, the straw bedding trampled into a sad, soggy pancake. “Horse slept all night in that,” he explains. “We dig out the compacted stuff, lay new bedding. Easy.” His tone makes it sound like a simple, foolproof routine, but I'm not convinced.

Trying to mimic Kyan’s movements, I stab at the heap of straw with the pitchfork, then scoop. But the tines suddenly slip, and a clump of soggy straw lands on my shoe. I swear under my breath.

“Fuck!” I mutter under my breath.

Kyan snorts, almost laughing. “Breathe through your knees, not your shoulders.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” I reply, frustrated.

Before I can protest further, he steps behind me, warm hands settling over mine as they guide the pitchfork’s handle, adjusting my grip, helping me find the right angle. A bead of sweat slides down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I straighten too quickly, catching the momentum wrong. A soggy, foul-smelling clump of straw and something unidentifiable flies toward the stall, splattering onto my shoe with a wet slap. I gag again.

Kyan bursts into laughter, unguarded and infectious. For a moment, I think I'll turn red and die of anger, but then he crouches down, wiping straw off my shoe with his thumb.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Not fatal.”

I want to glare at him, but his deep, hearty laughter fills the barn, sincere and warm.

“You’re enjoying this,” I say, more amused than annoyed.

“Only because you're so dramatic,” he replies, still chuckling.

He tosses a hay bale to me with unnecessary force, nearly dropping it, but I catch it clumsily as if auditioning for a farm-themed rom-com. Our shoulders bump, and the rough texture of the hay presses against my palms. The stall looks much cleaner now; the air smells faintly of fresh hay and something comforting — like the scent of a home. I wipe my palms on my jeans, trying to conceal my pride. Kyan tosses the pitchfork into the corner, stretching his arms as if he's done this a thousand times.

“Not bad for a city boy,” he teases, softer now.

I roll my eyes but can’t help but grin. The sun beams through the gaps in the barn slats, dust motes dancing lazily in the air like slow-falling snow. Outside, a horse whines — a low, impatient sound.

“That’s Ember,” Kyan says, gesturing toward the next stall. “She gets fussy if you don’t give her attention after cleaning. ‘Wanna to learn how to groom her?”

“Define ‘wanna,’” I reply, but my curiosity is already growing.

Kyan’s smirk deepens. “Too late, city boy. You’re drafted.”

He opens the stall door, and the smell of warm hay and fur rushes out. The horse is enormous up close — shoulder-high, with slow, deliberate breathing and lashes so long they make my carefully curated eyebrows look babyish. I just looked up “how to groom a horse” on my phone and now realise how outclassed my search results are.

Kyan moves with the ease of someone who treats animals like old friends — predicting, easing, listening. “Start at the neck,” he says, handing me a curry comb. “Use circular motions. Don’t press like you’re filing nails.”

I roll my eyes, feeling the familiar inclination to escape this situation. “Am I being stereotyped right now?”

“Prove me wrong,” he counters.

I do as instructed, starting to rub the comb in slow circles over the horse’s coat. The dirt yields under my movements, the skin rippling softly beneath my hand. Kyan leans closer to show me how to do it right, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. For someone who claims to be homophobic, the way he’s touching me feels uncomfortably intimate.

“You’re tense,” he notes, voice softer now. “Loosen your shoulder. Let your wrist do the work.”

I attempt to relax, and the brush glides more smoothly. The horse snorts — a warm puff of air that lands softly on my arm. We work in a quiet rhythm — an unspoken understanding filling the space. Kyan’s hand finds its way back to guide mine over the horse’s flank. Instead of pulling away out of discomfort, I hold my fingers close to his.

The horse nudges me gently, pressing her head into my chest as if giving approval. The sudden motion threatens to throw me off balance, but Kyan’s steadying arm is already there, at my waist — the familiar feeling of guilt begging to tug at my stomach.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” I reply, though I’m not entirely sure. But his presence makes everything feel a little less performative and more real. “Thanks.”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Good hands. Keep this up, and maybe you’ll stop being allergic to actual life.”

I snort. “Keep dreaming.”

Kyan’s laugh is soft and genuine. “Fine, but next time you wear something ridiculous, I'm making you clean in it.”

I chuckle, “Fine by me”

Chapter Text

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Monday, 22nd June 6:49PM

Alonzo’s POV:

I slumped down into the faded, worn-out sofa, the fabric scratching against my skin like some lingering reminder of the long day I had just endured. My body felt heavy with fatigue, and every muscle ached from the relentless demands of ranch work. I had seriously underestimated just how draining it would be, the kind of exhausting that seeped into your bones and made even the simplest movements feel like a monumental task.

“I feel like shit…” I complained weakly, a frustrated sigh escaping my lips as I sank deeper into the cushions, hoping they might somehow absorb my weariness.

“You look like it too,” Kyan shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he leaned carelessly against the doorframe with arms crossed, a smirk plastered across his face that only added to my irritation.

“Real class, Kyan,” I retorted, rolling my eyes at his smug demeanour. Even though I'd only been here for two days, I still knew him well enough to recognise that nothing I said would shift the look of self-satisfaction off his face.

“Well, just saying…” he shrugged, his casual tone betraying an undercurrent of contempt. He pushed himself off the doorframe, mumbling something under his breath. The only word I caught was “queers,” and I instantly felt the familiar sting of his homophobia hit me, a direct jab I’d anticipated but still wasn’t prepared for.

“What the fuck did you just say?” My voice sharpened with irritation, a sudden surge of anger rising to the surface as I pushed myself up from the sofa, feeling the heat of his words ignite a fire within me.

He paused abruptly, the confident air he wore evaporating in an instant.

“Nothing…”

I narrowed my eyes, refusing to let it slide. “No, go on. What’d you just say?”

“I said…” He hesitated, glancing around as if searching for an escape route. “I said all you queers are just drama queens!” His words burst forth, either fueled by fear or a misguided bravado that made my blood boil.

In a rush of adrenaline, I closed the distance between us in an instant, my heart thrumming angrily in my chest. The expression on his face was priceless — a jarring mix of surprise and regret, a brief moment of vulnerability that only fueled my anger further.

“You see, this is why we can’t have a civil conversation. You let all these stupid stereotypes shape your view of me instead of just getting to know who I actually am.” Before I could fully process my next move, he slapped me.

The sting of his palm was sharp and shocking, igniting a primal instinct inside me. With a surge of fiery impulse, I retaliated. My fist connected with his nose, the satisfying THUD echoing in my ears as he staggered back, the look of shock on his face almost comical.

But Kyan wasn’t done. He grabbed my shirt, dragging me down to the ground with him in a tangle of limbs. The world around us blurred slightly as I scrambled back to my feet, an intoxicating rush of anger surging through my veins. Blood trickled from my scalp where I’d landed harshly, but the discomfort barely registered as I lunged at him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and driving my knuckles into his lips.

We were a flurry of punches and kicks, a chaotic symphony of grunts, curses, and the sounds of our bodies colliding with the furniture around us. I eventually managed to pin him down, climbing on top of him and unleashing a storm of blows until he was too weak to do anything but whimper beneath the weight of my fury. The adrenaline coursing through me was intoxicating, but as I wiped the blood from my lip, the haze of anger began to lift, replaced by an awkward realisation: I had crossed a line I couldn’t take back.

Gazing down at him, my breath heavy and laboured, a strange mixture of relief and regret washed over me. “You know, I really thought we could’ve at least put up with each other, but now look at us.”

He let out a soft whimper, his pain palpable. “Shit, I think you broke something…” he groaned, turning slightly, a grimace overtaking his features as he assessed the damage.

I sighed, the weight of the confrontation settling uncomfortably in my chest. Despite how much I disliked him, I felt a flicker of sympathy emerge from the rubble of our fight. “Go take a warm shower… I’ll… clean up the floor…”

“Wow! How noble of you…” His sarcastic tone echoed, though his body language betrayed him as he slowly pushed himself off the floor, wincing through every movement. “Beat my ass and then clean the floor with my blood on it.”

“You started it, and my blood's on the floor too!” I shot back, irritation lacing my voice but a hint of amusement bubbling beneath the surface.

“Whatever…” he muttered, still wincing as he attempted to straighten himself up, the stubbornness in his tone grounding me a little more. “I’m gonna go take a shower, and not because you told me to — it’s because I want to.”

I rolled my eyes at his stubborn behaviour, not bothering to watch him as he limped towards the stairs. Instead, I grabbed a tea towel, beginning the tedious task of wiping the blood from the floor, each swipe a stark reminder of our reckless clash. I was taken aback by how much blood there was — my heart sank as I started to wonder where it had all come from. That’s when it struck me; had I forgotten to take off my rings from yesterday? I glanced down at my fingers, cursing softly under my breath. There they were, a few of my rings glistening ominously, now smeared with crimson.

Shit. What would Dakota say? She was set to come home to find her son and Kyan both bloodied and bruised. The thought nagged at me as I recalled Kyan’s resilience; this definitely wasn’t his first fight — he knew how to throw a punch, and I realised I had underestimated him in more ways than one.

The steady roar of the shower water gradually tapered off after about twenty minutes. Moments later, I heard him descending the creaking wooden stairs, each step echoing softly in the silent house. Then I saw it — bruises darkening his cheekbone, fresh cuts from my rings gaping against his skin, and a busted lip swollen and bloody. Suddenly, his eyes widened in shock when they landed on me…

“Fuck…” he shouted, his voice trembling with concern.

“What?” I demanded, my confusion mounting as I processed his reaction. But he remained silent, staring at me wide-eyed. “WHAT?”

“Have you looked in the mirror?” he muttered, his voice strained with worry. I shook my head, puzzled. What was he talking about? Quickly, I pulled my phone from my pocket, heart racing, and opened the camera app. My breath caught in my throat as I stared into the screen, a horrifying realisation dawning on me… What. The. Fuck. There was a massive wound on my head, blood crusted in my hair. My face was marred with bruises and cuts just like his. We had fucked each other up bad.

“Well, shit…” I muttered under my breath, grimacing as the sharp sting of the fresh wound on my scalp registered more intensely now that I could see it clearly in the harsh kitchen light. My fingers brushed against the tender skin, and I met Kyan’s gaze. In his eyes, I caught a flicker of guilt — a fleeting moment that mingled with a swirling vortex of regret, pain, and sympathy reflected across his face.

The jingle of keys echoed ominously from the front door, and panic shot through me. Kyan looked just as anxious as I felt, his brow furrowed with concern. I silently begged the universe for it to be anyone but Dakota who walked through that door. Thankfully, my prayers were answered when Abby burst in. The moment she spotted me sitting at the kitchen counter, bruised and bloodied, I watched her face drop, the colour draining as she processed the sight before her.

“What the hell happened? Oh my god…” She rushed over to me, her hands instinctively reaching out to brush a few stray hairs away from the wound on my scalp. I winced at her touch, the sensitivity radiating through me.

“Your brother can throw a punch, that’s what happened…” I managed to reply, my voice strained. Abby shot a startled glance at Kyan, whose appearance was even worse than mine — his bruises were vivid, and his eyes held a haunted look.

“Who started it?” she demanded, concern lacing her tone.

“It was both of our faults,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady while Kyan and Abby exchanged confused looks. I took a deep breath and continued, “He made a comment, I wouldn’t let it go, and then…he slapped me.”

“Was the comment homophobic?” Abby’s question hung in the air heavy. I nodded, my throat tightening as I confirmed her suspicion.

“Then it was his fault! It’s not your fault you’re gay,” she asserted, her gaze sharpening as it shifted to Kyan, now infused with righteous anger.

Kyan’s expression shifted into one of disbelief, his voice rising defensively, “What? Yes, it is! It’s a choice!” My teeth clenched at his words, the urge to retaliate bubbling back to the surface.

“No, it’s not,” Abby muttered quietly, but her conviction was undeniable.

“And how would you know that?” Kyan shouted back, his indignation palpable.

“Because I’m gay!” She cut him off, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes. “I’m a lesbian, Kyan…”

He shook his head rapidly, his expression twisting with denial. “No, no, you’re not. Alonzo’s convinced you. He’s put these delusions in your head. You’re normal…”

Unable to bear his delusional denial any longer, I jumped from the counter and slapped him across the face. The sound rang out sharply in the kitchen, echoing the turmoil in the air.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” I practically screamed, fists clenched at my sides. “Do you have any idea how much courage it took her to come out?” Before I could react, he grabbed me by the hair, pinning me against the wall with an intensity that made my heart race.

“Listen here, this is my house, and you’re not going to disrespect me…”

“I’m not threatened by you…” I shot back, my voice defiant despite the fear coursing through me. In response, he slapped me again, the sting sharper this time, fueling a fire within.

“KYAN! YOU’RE ACTING LIKE DAD!” Abby screamed, her voice cracking with urgency. The words hung in the air, powerful enough to pierce the rage that surrounded him. He dropped my hair, his expression shifting to one of fear and guilt, and bolted from the room, slamming the door behind him.

My breath came in heavy gulps, the adrenaline washing over me in waves as I turned to Abby. We locked eyes, a painful silence settling between us, both of us acutely aware that we were far from okay.

“You okay?” Abby asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, you?” I replied, but we both knew we were lying — our hearts echoed the truth we couldn't bring ourselves to speak.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The warm water cascaded down my skin as I stood in the shower, its soothing rhythm enveloping me like a comforting embrace. Yet, despite the tranquillity, my mind was a whirlwind of worry for Abby. In small towns like this, whispers travelled faster than light, I feared for her safety if she dared to be open about her sexuality. The conflict tugged at my heart — was I overreacting, or was my instinct right? A sharp sting on my head reminded me of the recent turmoil, but it faded to the background as I replayed the moment Kyan had bolted from the room after Abby’s comment about him acting like their father. Anger simmered within me; how could he just leave without a word?

Sighing, I finally turned off the water, feeling an urgency to redirect my thoughts. Grabbing a towel, I dried off, my mind still churning as I slipped into a comfortable tracksuit. I approached Abby’s door and knocked softly.

“Come in!” Her voice was weak, a stark contrast to the vivacity I knew she possessed. I opened the door gently and perched on the edge of her bed, where she lay wrapped in blankets, looking fragile.

“Are you okay? I’m really worried about you…” I said, unable to hide my concern.

“Why?” She asked with a fragile giggle that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Because I know how terrifying coming out can be, how quickly things can spiral out of control… and if I’m being honest, Kyan’s reaction messed with my head a bit—” My words were cut short by the sound of Kyan's voice echoing down the hallway.

“Fucking disgusting faggots,” he muttered disdainfully as he walked past Abby’s door.

The word “disgusting” hit me with an intensity that took my breath away. My chest tightened, as if an invisible weight pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as shadows of the past crept into my mind.

Suddenly, I was no longer in Abby's room; I was transported back to that cold, sterile place where fluorescent lights hummed above us, the scent of cheap soap assaulting my senses. I pressed my palms against the unforgiving cold tile, and panic twisted my stomach.

Voices from the past surrounded me, but one echoed louder than the rest: “You can change. You want to change, don’t you?” It felt like a mantra, an insidious chant reverberating through my memory.

I blinked hard, grounding myself as I fought to shake off the ghosts. Once. Twice. I wasn’t there; I knew that. But in that moment, it felt all too real.

Finally, I dragged in a shaky breath that felt like sandpaper scraping against my throat. The world around me was still slightly fuzzy, but I was back in the now, seated beside Abby, who was watching me with wide, worried eyes. She looked unsure, caught between wanting to speak and hesitating out of concern.

“Sorry,” I managed to say, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach my heart. “Zoned out for a sec. People throwing slurs around tends to kill the vibe.”

Her attempt at a laugh was interrupted by a wave of emotion, and her face crumpled in response. “I just— I didn’t think he’d—”

“Yeah.” I cut her off gently, my tone softening. “You never think they will. Not until they do.”

We lingered in the silence, sharing the heaviness of the moment — two souls who understood the sting of being hated for simply existing as themselves. I leaned back against the wall, adopting a casual posture, even though everything within felt tense.

“He’s wrong, you know,” I said slowly, meeting her gaze with sincerity. “About you. About us.”

For a brief moment, Abby blinked at me, disbelief flickering in her eyes as if she were trying to grasp the truth of my words.

“You don’t need to fix who you are,” I added in a quieter voice, feeling my emotions tangle and threaten to spill over. “You never did.”

My voice cracked at the end, and I despised that it did, but for that moment, I allowed it. I let the vulnerability breathe, hoping it might help her feel a little less alone.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kyan’s POV:

I stood in the small, cluttered kitchen, pouring myself a glass of cold, filtered water from the pitcher on the countertop. The cool liquid glided smoothly into the glass, condensation forming on its exterior as I glanced over at Alonzo, who was slouched on the faded sofa, visibly exhausted.

“I feel like shit…” he groaned loudly, his head lolling back against the rough brick wall with an exaggerated sigh that echoed through the quiet room. I leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a teasing smirk.

“You look like it too,” I shot back, unable to hide my amusement as my eyes flicked over his dishevelled hair and tired eyes.

“Real class, Kyan,” he said, rolling his eyes dramatically and letting out a resigned sigh. I suppressed a laugh at his theatrics, knowing he loved the attention.

“Well, I’m just saying…” I shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant as I pushed myself off the doorframe, taking a slow sip from my glass. “All you queers are such drama queens…” I muttered under my breath, feeling a mix of mischievousness and boldness bubble up inside me.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he shouted suddenly, pushing himself upright from the sofa and closing the gap between us with deliberate intent. A knot formed in my stomach as tension thickened the stale air between us.

“Uh… Nothing…” I stammered, nervously rubbing the back of my neck, hoping to brush it off.

“No, go on. What’d you just say?” His voice was sharp, challenging, with a dangerous edge.

“I said…” I glanced down at the scratched tiled floor, wishing it would open up and swallow me whole. “I said all you queers are just drama queens!” The words spilt out despite my better judgment, and instantly I felt a rush of regret and embarrassment.

He stepped closer, his eyes flashing with a mixture of surprise and hurt, and I felt a tumult in my stomach, a swirl of regret clashing with my bravado.

“You see, this is why we can’t have a civil conversation. You let all those dumb stereotypes shape your view of me instead of just getting to know who I actually am,” he said, his voice tightening and voice trembling slightly as he took another calculated step forward.

Before I could process what was happening, I impulsively slapped him across the face, the sharp sound reverberating through the small kitchen. It was too late to take it back as his fist connected sharply with my nose, a sharp, burning pain radiating through my face. I stumbled backwards, grabbing onto his arm to steady myself as I fell, dragging him down with me, the heavy thud resonating on the old tiled floor.

Adrenaline surged through my veins, clouding my judgment, but a strange, almost humorous realisation washed over me as I noticed blood trickling from his head. It was an almost absurd twist of fate that flickered in my mind. But before I could catch my breath, he yanked my hair and struck me hard in the lip.

“FUCK!” I groaned, the sting causing my vision to blur momentarily.

He managed to pin me down, his weight pressing harder than I expected. His skinny body was surprisingly strong as he climbed on top of me, landing blow after blow until I was too weak to do anything but let out pathetic whimpers. My world narrowed to the rhythm of our chaotic struggle, blood from my lip puddling with his blood as he paused, looking down at me, breathing heavily.

“You know,” he said softly, voice low, a hint of disappointment flickering in his words, “I really thought we could’ve at least put up with each other, but now look at us.”

“Shit, I think you broke something…” I groaned, trying to shift under him, a flare of pain shooting through my body.

“Go take a warm shower… I’ll… clean up the floor…” His tone dripped with sarcasm that only fueled my irritation.

“Wow! How noble of you…” I managed through a pained, shaky, sarcastic laugh. “Beat my ass and then clean the floor with my blood on it.”

“You started it, and my blood's on the floor too!” he shot back, frustration etched on his face.

“Whatever…” I grumbled, still wincing as I attempted to straighten myself up. “I’m gonna go take a shower, and not because you told me to — it’s because I want to.” With that, I turned away, leaving the chaotic energy of our confrontation lingering in the air, the details of the scene vividly alive.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I turned on the shower, letting the warm water cascade over my body, soothing the wounds on my face. Each droplet felt both comforting and painful as it touched the raw skin. I let out a groan, the sting reminding me of the fight that had just unfolded. As I rubbed soap over my body, trying to wash away the physical pain, I contemplated how I had ended up in this mess. Eventually, I turned off the shower, stepped out, and wrapped myself in a towel, feeling the fabric absorb the moisture and heat.

Sitting on my bed with a heavy sigh, I couldn’t shake the nagging question: how the hell did he manage to beat me? How is he that strong? I resolved right then that this wasn’t over — not by a long shot.

I changed into something more comfortable: a loose t-shirt that hung off my shoulders and a pair of jeans that felt soft against my still-sensitive skin. I reached for my cologne, the familiar scent momentarily lifting my spirits. But as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I hesitated. Could I really face him again? Swallowing my pride, I slowly made my way down the stairs, each step heavy with uncertainty.

As I entered the kitchen, I found him perched on the counter, an unyielding glare on his face. “What?” he demanded, annoyance evident in his voice. I remained silent, unwilling to engage. “WHAT?” he pressed, frustration bleeding through his words.

“Have you looked in the mirror?” I muttered, my concern breaking through my hardened exterior. He shook his head, pulling out his phone to check his reflection. When he saw it, his eyes widened in shock, and I felt a flicker of guilt spark within me. The massive gash on his head was a testament to our fight, a grim reminder that I was the one who started it.

Just then, the jingle of keys resonated from the front door, and panic shot through me. Thankfully, it was only Abby. But as I watched her face drain of colour upon seeing Alonzo's injury, a wave of dread washed over me.

“What the hell happened? Oh my god…” She rushed over to him, her hands instinctively reaching out to brush aside some stray hairs that clung to the wound. He whimpered at her touch, and I felt a deep twist of regret in my gut.

“Your brother can throw a punch, that’s what happened…” Alonzo groaned, still managing to lace his words with sarcasm even amid evident pain. Abby turned to glare at me, her expression twisting into one of confusion and concern when she took in my injuries as well. Her eyes widened further, as if they might pop from their sockets.

“Who started it?”

“It was both of our faults. He made a comment, I wouldn’t let it go, and then…he slapped me.” I hadn’t expected Alonzo’s slap to hurt so much.

“Was the comment homophobic?” Abby looked between us, and he nodded, silent agreement hanging thick in the air. Regret twisted in my stomach — I had set this all in motion.

“Then it was his fault! It’s not your fault you’re gay,” she exclaimed, her conviction hitting me like a punch to the gut. Yes, it is! My mind raced, furious at the idea that she’d been swayed into believing this.

“What? Yes, it is! It’s a choice!” I snapped back, confidence faltering.

“No it's not...” she muttered, her voice cracking slightly.

“And how would you know that?” I challenged, my heart blazing.

“Because I’m gay! I’m a lesbian, Kyan…”

No…

No.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and I felt my world quickly start to crumble. How could Alonzo have influenced her so deeply in such a short time?

“No, no, you’re not. Alonzo’s convinced you. He’s planted these delusions in your head. You're normal…”

With a sudden, sharp crack, I felt a strong sting against my cheek — Alonzo had slapped me. “Can you shut the fuck up?” he screamed, his fists clenched tightly. “Do you have any idea how much courage it took her to come out?” Rage boiled inside me, but it only fanned the flames of our fight. I grabbed him by the hair and pinned him to the wall, my breath coming in quick bursts.

“Listen here, this is my house, and you’re not going to disrespect me…”

“I’m not threatened by you…” He shot back, and that boldness struck a deeper chord of anger within me. In retaliation, I slapped him again, this time harder.

“KYAN! YOU’RE ACTING LIKE DAD!”

Those words pierced through the haze of adrenaline, flooding me with shame.

I was. I dropped Alonzo’s hair as if it burned my fingers, staring at my hands in horror, my body trembling. I didn't want to become like him. My father’s cruelty resurfaced in my thoughts, and the guilt gnawed at me mercilessly.

With a heavy heart, I bolted from the house, needing to escape the suffocating atmosphere. My feet carried me through the woods, the fresh air a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in my chest. I felt the tears spill down my cheeks; I was overwhelmed by the realisation that I was trapped in a cycle I despised. I knew being gay was a choice because I had romantic feelings for men, yet I didn’t act on them. It felt so simple, so clear-cut. But with that clarity came the haunting thought that maybe I was just like my father.

Wiping my tears away furiously, I muttered to myself, “Man up for God’s sake!” and turned toward home, each step heavy with regret and confusion.

As I swung the door open and slammed it shut behind me, the weight of my actions settled heavily on my shoulders. The atmosphere was thick as I trudged up the stairs, whispering to myself, “Fucking disgusting faggots,” as I passed Abby’s room. Their distant chatter fell silent, and I slammed my door shut, collapsing onto my bed.

This was unmanageable, too much to bear. I just wanted to sleep. With the blinds drawn, I curled under my covers, but sleep eluded me.

Tears soaked my pillow as I fought to stifle my sobs, the shame of vulnerability suffocating me — real men weren’t supposed to cry. I sent out a silent prayer, begging for help, for guidance, desperate for my sister to revert back to who I thought she was. She was normal; she had to be.

Silence filled the house, yet my body ached from both physical and emotional turmoil. Each breath felt laboured. The quiet was deafening, echoing Abby’s haunting words in my mind — “You’re acting like Dad.”

The room felt like it was closing in on me, the air too thick to breathe. I couldn’t tell where my anger ended and my shame began until they were indistinguishable.

“They’re wrong,” I whispered to myself, trying to convince my heart. “I’m not him.”

But even as I uttered the words, all I could hear was my dad’s voice in my own, and that thought alone made me want to scream.

I turned onto my side, staring at the dark wall as if it could give me answers. For the first time, I wasn’t sure if I hated them… or myself more.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Abby’s POV:

Monday, 22nd June, 7:01 PM

After sharing a gentle kiss with my girlfriend, I strolled toward the porch, the familiar jingle of my keys providing a comforting rhythm with each step. A light melody danced on my lips, a whisper of my favourite song that lingered in the air like sweet nostalgia as I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The warmth that had enveloped me outside dissipated instantly, replaced by an unsettling chill that seemed to coil around my spine. There, perched on the countertop, was Alonzo, while Kyan stood across from him, their body language surprisingly relaxed — like old friends. Yet, a palpable tension hung thick in the air, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface.

As I drew closer, however, an icy pang gripped my stomach. The sight of Alonzo sent shockwaves through me; his face bore a canvas of cuts and bruises, most alarming of all a deep gash on his forehead, the blood matted in his dark hair like a macabre crown.

“Oh my god! What the hell happened?” I exclaimed, rushing toward him, my heart pounding like a relentless drummer in a marching band. I reached out, instinctively brushing aside his hair to examine the wound, cradling his face in my trembling hands. He flinched at my touch, a small whimper escaping his lips that sent an electric wave of panic shooting through my veins.

“Your brother knows how to throw a punch, that’s what happened,” Alonzo replied, and I shot a swift, furious glance at Kyan. But Kyan looked even worse; his own face was a tragic mosaic of injuries — bruises splotched across his skin, a swollen lip bleeding slightly. A glimpse of his damp hair hinted that he had rushed to clean himself up after the chaos had unfolded.

“Who started it?” I asked, the weight of concern pressing heavily in my voice. A nagging doubt whispered that Kyan must have instigated the whole mess; I had never seen him lose a fight in such a catastrophic way.

“It was both our faults. He made a comment, and I wouldn’t let it go, and then... he slapped me,” Alonzo explained, his eyes flickering nervously to Kyan, who wore a mask of stubborn defiance, as if determined to hold his ground against the accusations.

In my mind, the sequence of events only solidified my belief that Kyan had picked a fight—and lost spectacularly. “Was the comment homophobic?” I pressed, already anticipating the answer. Alonzo nodded, the confirmation settling in my stomach like a heavy stone. That was all I needed to hear. “Then it was his fault! It’s not your fault you’re gay,” I directed my glare at Kyan, whose face twisted in disbelief, a mixture of indignation and confusion.

Kyan’s expression morphed into one of outrage, his voice rising like a storm gathering strength. “What? Yes, it is! It’s a choice!”

“No, it’s not,” I muttered, barely able to contain my escalating frustration, praying he wouldn’t catch the quiet protest laced in my tone — a desperate hope that he could understand.

“And how would you know that?” he shot back, his ignorance radiating an insistent challenge that felt like a gauntlet thrown at my feet.

“Because I’m gay!” My voice cracked under the weight of my truth, tears threatening to spill from my eyes at the confrontation. “I’m a lesbian, Kyan…” I stammered, each admission feeling like a revelation torn from my core, an unveiling of a secret I had held so tightly.

He shook his head, horrified, eyes wide with denial. “No, no, you’re not. Alonzo’s convinced you. He’s put these delusions in your head. You’re normal…”

Tears cascaded down my cheeks, smudging my mascara, the gravity of his words sinking in like lead. Just then, Alonzo did something I never expected — he strode right up to Kyan and slapped him, the noise cracking through the air like lightning.

“Can you shut the fuck up? Do you have any idea how much courage it took her to come out?” Alonzo shouted, his emotions boiling over in a fierce roar. In that moment, Kyan grabbed Alonzo by the hair and shoved him against the wall, whispering furiously in his ear, words I couldn’t discern but sensed were laced with venom. And then, he slapped Alonzo again, flooding me with memories of Dad — the anger, the violence. It felt all too familiar, a horrifying echo from our childhood.

“KYAN! YOU’RE ACTING LIKE DAD!” I screamed, my breath caught in a tumultuous tide of adrenaline. Kyan flinched at my words, the truth of them striking him like a physical blow. He released Alonzo’s hair, staring at his hands as if grappling with the dark reality of his actions. Moments later, he bolted out the front door, slamming it behind him, leaving behind a heavy silence that felt more suffocating than the chaos that had just broken.

“You okay?” I asked quietly, concern wrapping my words in a fragile softness, hoping to soothe the hurt that lingered.

“Yeah, you?” Alonzo replied, his voice strained, but we both knew that deep down, we were far from okay. The tension between us crackled, a reminder of the walls that had just been shattered.

“Go clean yourself up. That wound looks like it hurts. It could get worse if you don’t take care of it…” I urged him, watching as he nodded and trudged up the stairs, each step heavy with the weight of our unfolding reality. I sank to my knees on the kitchen floor, the enormity of the moment crashing over me like a relentless wave — I had just come out. I had just bared my soul to my homophobic brother. I had just come out to a homophobic brother who would inevitably tell Mama. Panic engulfed me, propelling me to my room, where I buried my face in my pillow and screamed until my voice was hoarse, the emotional release mingling with sharp edges of fear and uncertainty.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, the soothing sound of the shower finally stopped. A gentle knock at my door drew my attention, a beacon in the emotional storm swirling within me.

“Come in!” I called out, striving to infuse my voice with an upbeat cheerfulness that felt incredibly fragile, as if it could shatter at any moment. Alonzo stepped through the doorway, his posture a curious blend of hesitance and resolve; even so, the storm of emotions roiling beneath the surface of his calm exterior was nothing short of evident in his eyes. I inhaled deeply, trying to fortify myself for the heavy conversation we both knew awaited us — one that felt monumental in its necessity.

“Are you okay? I’m really worried about you…” His voice trembled slightly, thick with genuine concern, each word etched into his features, revealing the depth of his sincerity.

I offered a slight chuckle, an inconsequential attempt to lighten the dense atmosphere, yet it rang hollow against the gravity of the moment. “Why?”

“Because I understand how terrifying coming out can be — how quickly everything can spiral beyond your control… and to be honest, Kyan’s reaction messed with my head a bit—”

“Fucking disgusting faggots,” Kyan spat as he strode past the hallway, his words dripping with venom that lingered in the air like a noxious gas. My anger ignited instantly, a searing tide rising through me, but it was the look of despairing shock on Alonzo’s face that struck me the hardest. Those hateful words seemed to unearth long-buried traumas within him; I could see the flicker of distant pain reflected in his warm brown eyes, shadows of his own history rising to the surface.

“Sorry,” he murmured, forcing a smile that failed to illuminate the depths of his gaze. “I zoned out for a sec. People throwing slurs around kind of kills the vibe.”

I tried to chuckle again, yet a wave of tumultuous emotions crashed over me like an overwhelming tide. “I just—I didn’t think he’d—”

“Yeah.” His response was gentle, a flicker of solace cutting through the dense silence that enveloped us, as if he were holding out a lifeline amidst a storm. “You never think they will. Not until they do.”

The silence that stretched between us was deafening, a chasm filled with the weighty burden of our shared struggles — two souls entwined by the unrelenting pain of being targeted for simply existing in a world that often seemed intent on casting judgment.

“He’s wrong, you know,” Alonzo said softly, his voice a soothing balm as it punctured the oppressive stillness. “About you. About us.”

But I found it impossible to accept his comforting words; guilt roiled within me like a restless sea, making it nearly impossible to embrace the truth of my own feelings. The notion of lying to myself loomed like an insurmountable wall I couldn’t scale.

“You don’t need to fix who you are,” he urged, his voice a soft, pleading whisper, weaving a kind of hope that felt just out of reach. I exhaled heavily, feeling the weight of despair settle upon my shoulders like an unwelcome shroud. “You never did.”

Chapter Text

Trigger Warning: Mentions of Self-Harm, Mentions of suicide, Implications/Flashback of SA.

Kyan’s POV:

Tuesday, 23rd June 2:03AM

I found myself hypnotised by the drawer, where my blade lay hid, a magnetic force tugging at my mind, forcing me under its spell, urging me to surrender. It had been a long time since I last gave in to that dangerous temptation, and I had allowed myself to believe I was far removed from it. Yet, in that brief moment, it felt as if the blade itself was reaching out, beckoning me back into its cold embrace. With a sudden surge of determination that startled even me, I yanked the drawer open with a loud, jarring slam, the sound echoing ominously in the quiet room.

My fingers plunged into the chaos of clutter, sifting through old receipts and discarded trinkets until they finally brushed against the cool, smooth metal of the blade — a chill more intense than I remembered, sending a shiver up my spine. As I lifted it from the depths of its hiding place, the surface gleamed with an unsettling brightness, reflecting not just light but my own distorted image — blurred and warped, a stranger looking back at me.

A tight knot formed in my chest, and suddenly, the cruel barbs of my father's words cut through my thoughts with ruthless precision. His accusations echoed hauntingly in my mind, each phrase sharp and jagged, lingering like a ghost from my past: "You’re wrong." "You’re disgusting." I realised, with a sinking feeling, that I had internalised those beliefs, allowing them to seep into my very being until they became part of me.

An uproar of emotions surged within me — I wanted to scream, to unleash the pent-up fury that lay coiled inside, proving him wrong with every ounce of my being. But more than anything, I yearned for a way out of this torture, feeling so fractured and torn; half of me wished for acceptance, while the other half was drowning in the suffocating weight of his words.

Trembling, I clenched the blade, a familiar longing gnawing at the edges of my thoughts — the insidious notion that maybe I deserved this, that this was a path I could manage. Just once, I told myself, almost pleadingly. I can handle it.

In that unstable moment, an unexpected wave of release washed over me, as if all the accumulated tension, frustration, and sorrow coiled tightly like a cataclysm within me had finally evaporated, melting away like ice beneath the warm sun. For just an instant, I could breathe, unburdened by the suffocating shadows of self-hatred and despair that constantly clung to me.

But as the delirious fog of relief began to fade, reality crashed down like an unforgiving wave, knocking the breath from my lungs. I stared blankly at my hands, disassociated as if they belonged to someone else entirely, every detail around me growing distant and muted — like I was submerged underwater, struggling desperately to reach the surface. The thrilling rush that had momentarily lifted me was gone, replaced by an overwhelming heaviness that settled deep in my chest. I felt a deep reluctance to confront the reality of what had just happened. I didn’t want to feel anything at all.

So, in a desperate bid for ease, I crawled into bed, pulling the covers tightly around me as if they could shield me from the world. I desired warmth and comfort, hoping sleep would enclose me swiftly, possibly erasing the agitation that gnawed relentlessly at my core. Tomorrow could carry the weight of this inner conflict; for tonight, I simply craved silence, hoping to drown out the racket of my thoughts, if only for a little while.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

When I woke up, there was a fleeting moment of forgetfulness, a fragile bubble paused in time. The morning light filtered through my window, casting gentle shadows that danced across the room, painting everything in a soft, golden glow, creating an illusion of normality. But then, like an unforgiving tide, reality crashed in — a cold wave surging through my chest, tightening my throat and suffocating my breath.

I lie still, my eyes glued to the shifting shadows that sway and pirouette upon the ceiling, ghostly figures of my mind’s turmoil.

“It didn’t happen,” I whisper to myself, the words hanging in the air like mist, uncertain whether I’m trying to convince myself or reaching out to something greater, as if inviting god to morph this unbearable reality into a fleeting nightmare. Yet, my body betrays me, echoing with an ache that feels heavy, as if a weight has pinned me down under the relentless pressure of my own spiralling thoughts.

With an immense effort, I roll over, the sheets tangled around me like seaweed. The air smells familiar — my blanket, the very walls of this room — but it no longer feels like my haven. It’s as if I shattered something precious — a delicate vase — that can never be pieced back together, with jagged fragments scattered in ways I’m unable to understand.

I want to rise — shower, brush my teeth, maybe even slip on a smile and fake normalcy — but even the idea of movement felt forbidden. My hands tremble as they stretch toward my phone, hesitating in mid-air as if fended off by an invisible force, retreating back to the safety of the covers. A heavy dread coiling in my stomach warns me of the messages within — a relentless reminder of my identity — or, maybe more accurately, the fractured version of who I’ve become.

Guilt coils low in my stomach, a silent yet sharp presence clawing away at me from the inside. I tell myself I’ll do better, but even that confidence feels hollow, staggering precariously on the ridge of disbelief. It’s the only thing that escapes my lips, a fragile lifeline that prevents me from plummeting into the abyss of despair.

Finally, with a loud groan escaping like a wounded animal, I summon the strength to push myself out of bed. I felt weak, a hollow shell of my former self. Shuffling toward my door, I’m destroyed by an overwhelming sense of worthlessness, a silence so deep it screams of being unloved. I yield a fragile push against my bedroom door, stepping out like a disoriented sailor, every step uncertain on the tumultuous sea of life.

As I swing the bathroom door open, I turn on the shower; the sound of water rushing fills the space like a warm embrace. The mirror fogs up almost instantly, a thick veil blurring the reflection I dread to confront. I tell myself that’s a blessing — an excuse to avoid the torment of staring too deeply at the stranger gazing back.

Stepping under the gush of warm water, I hiss; the heat hits me like a comforting blanket, while sharp steam fills my senses. It’s a stark contrast to the chill lurking within my heart. I feel the act of calm I’ve been desperately clinging to begin to crack. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, stifling the muffled whimpers that bubble up, the water washing over me as I stand still, eyes squeezed shut. With each droplet, I hope the warmth will carry away more than just the grime — perhaps my worries, my guilt, everything that weighs me down, swirling away like dirt down the drain.

The water runs clear, yet the sense lingers that I’m waiting for something — evidence of life itself maybe, or a glimmer of hope that I might begin to get better. I cling to the fragile belief that this guilt will wash away alongside the suds, letting the water carry it far from me.

I wash quickly, dodging the tender spots where the soap might sting too sharply, opting instead for a hurried wash that leaves no room for lingering thoughts. Just enough to feel somewhat human again. When I finally step out, I wrap the towel around myself tightly, clutching it as if sheer willpower alone can hold my scattered self together — certain that if I grasp it tightly enough, I might just complete this fragile act of becoming real once more. Won’t fall apart again.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

As I slowly descended the worn wooden stairs, the walls of the dimly lit hallway seemed to stretch out before me, transforming into a gallery of childhood memories, flickering past like faded images in an old film reel. Each frame stirred within me a sense of nostalgia, reminding me of days when everything felt lighter, and laughter echoed freely amidst the shadows instead of the suffocating silence that now enveloped the air. The distant murmur of frustrated voices seeped through the stillness, drumming against my skull with an unsettling rhythm, amplifying the bizarre contradiction of a space too quiet yet somehow deafening.

When I reached the bottom step, my gaze collided with my mother’s; her expression shifted upon seeing me, an all-too-familiar tension rising like steam in the air.

“Don’t start,” I warned, my voice low and steady, a desperate attempt to slice through the looming threat of an impending lecture.

“Damn, no one said nothing…” Alonzo muttered in the background, his voice dripping with mockery. In that moment, I fantasised about silencing him permanently — if only I could surgically rip out his voice box, maybe he’d think twice before crossing me again.

My attention flickered to Abby, standing just a few paces away. An intoxicating and chaotic swirl of guilt and resentment twisted in my stomach as our eyes met. There lay an unspoken understanding in her gaze, both longing and regretful, a palpable ache lingering in the space between us. Just then, my mother cleared her throat, effectively dragging us back to the present.

“Right, you two need to tolerate each other at least. I’m not going to have you both trying to take each other’s heads off,” she said firmly, her authority drawing a line in the sand. She shifted her unwavering gaze between me and Alonzo, the unyielding stare defining the boundaries of our behaviour. “So, you will spend some time together doing everyday things until you learn to act like civilised human beings. Starting with a trip to the shop down the road.”

“Seriously?” I muttered, disbelief lacing my words as I stared at her like she'd just suggested we skydive without parachutes.

“Uh-huh!” she exclaimed, her tone laden with satisfaction as she closed the door on any argument. “Off you go! And remember, you’re walking.”

“That’s like a twenty-minute—”

“Don’t want to hear it! Off you pop!”

*✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*✩‧₊˚

So, here I found myself, begrudgingly shackled to him again. The walk to the store stretched into an eternity, each step laden with the weight of resignation. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I was being punished for something that felt barely my fault.

“Are you okay?” Alonzo asked, his voice softening with an unexpected concern that made me squirm.

“Yeah…why?” I shot back, hastily masking my vulnerability.

“Oh, nothing... It’s just that your hands were shaking, that’s all…”

“Why do you care? You don’t even like me!” I retorted sharply, caught off guard by his sudden gentleness.

“Well, you don’t make it easy to,” he shot back, a flicker of annoyance igniting in his eyes. Why the hell was he even looking at my hands? Whatever; analysing it right now felt like too much work.

As we approached the store, the neon glow of the shop lights assaulted my eyes like an overzealous spotlight, intensifying my irritation. I fished out my phone to check the grocery list my mom had sent — just the usual suspects: eggs, bread, and vegetables. You get the gist. My patience was already fraying at the edges.

“C’mon, I want to be in and out of here,” I muttered, my voice grating like sandpaper against wood. But Alonzo had other ideas — he was tossing every brand-name item into the cart, completely ignoring the tight budget we were supposed to abide by.

“You think we’re rich or something?” I snapped.

“I’ll pay! I’m here for the summer; I might as well make myself useful,” he replied nonchalantly, shrugging as if it were no big deal. Just when I was about to toss some oranges into the cart, Alonzo shot a warning at me.

“Uh, I have a citrus allergy…” he said, tension creeping into his voice like a shadow.

“Okay?” I replied, utterly baffled. Why was he even telling me this? It wasn’t like it affected me.

“Like, it’s deadly… if the fruit is cut or peeled, the worst-case scenario is I go into anaphylactic shock,” he explained, his tone suddenly grave.

That didn’t sound too bad to me — more of a problem for him than for me. Honestly, I wasn't the biggest fan of oranges anyway, so it just gave me an excuse to avoid them.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally finished shopping. The cart was overflowing, and I was more than ready to escape. At the checkout, the cashier scanned our items with practised efficiency.

“Will that be all for today?” she asked, while Alonzo nodded and handed over his card with a casual flick of his wrist.

I snatched two bags with one hand and started to walk away, feeling Alonzo’s eye roll bore into my back like a laser beam. I could hear him hastily gathering his bags, the sound of crinkling plastic resonating behind me as he sped to catch up.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

On the way home, I ran my fingers along the splintered wood of the old fence, the rough texture biting at my skin as I navigated its ragged surface. Each step stirred up memories of forgotten summers, but it was the jagged edge of rusty metal, lurking in the shadows, that caught me off guard. A sharp sting shot through my arm like a flash of lightning, pulling a soft gasp from my lips.

“Ah, shit…” I muttered, instinctively lifting my sleeve to inspect the wound blooming on my skin. But when I looked up, Alonzo's concerned gaze pierced through the light. Fuck it, he saw.

“Don’t say anything,” I warned, my voice laced with an urgency that surprised even me.

“Kyan, trust me, keeping quiet won’t solve anything—”

“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!” The words erupted from me, raw and unfiltered, catching us both off guard. “YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO LOATHE YOURSELF FOR WHO YOU ARE.”

Silence hung heavily in the air, and for a fleeting moment, I regretted my eruption.

“Maybe I do!” Alonzo countered, his voice shuddering with defiance, a tremor that echoed a vulnerability I’d never seen in him before. I felt a surge of disbelief. How could someone so open struggle with self-hatred? “Want to talk about self-hatred? You wouldn’t last a second enduring what I’ve been through!” He raised his voice, each word strained like a taut wire ready to snap.

“Oh, that’s total bullshit!” I shot back, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. The idea that he could truly understand hurt. He thought his life was so tough, like he held a monopoly on suffering.

I heard the drop of shopping, the bags crinkling when they hit the ground, and in an instant, his frustration turned physical; he slapped me — more fiercely than the last time. The force was staggering, and his anger crackled in the air, thickening the space between us with a tension I hadn’t anticipated. He shoved me down, making me drop my bags and delivered blow after blow, a fierce sting radiating through my body with each impact until I finally mustered the strength to push him away.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I practically screamed, a hurricane of confusion and anger boiling over. He sprang to his feet, as if jolted from a dream, his eyes wide with realisation.

“My problem? You’ve dismissed every part of me without even trying to understand who I truly am! You think my life is a never-ending dream? That I’m just some self-absorbed dick?” His tone was sceptical, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability that moments before had made his words tremble.

“Yeah, because that’s exactly who you are! You’re a selfish prick! And let me tell you, being called a faggot doesn’t automatically mean you’re traumatised!” I yelled, trying to drown out the fear creeping into my own voice.

"You really think that’s what this is about?" he shot back, disbelief etched into every furrow of his brow, his expression a cyclone of raw emotion swirling beneath the surface.

“Then what the hell are you talking about?” I spat back, my voice cracking under the weight of frustration and confusion, each word laced with the sharp sting of betrayal.

He let out a bitter laugh, a hollow sound devoid of any real joy, rumbling through the tense silence that hung between us. “You really believe I’m here for fun? For a laugh? My mum shipped me off like I’m some broken toy she didn’t want anymore!” His voice trembled now, each word dripping with pain as if he were laying bare a festering wound that had been hidden for far too long. “She thought maybe the fresh air would fix me! Maybe being around people like you would teach me what 'normal' is supposed to look like.”

My breath caught in my throat, the weight of his words crashing over me like a tidal wave — not because I felt pity for him, but because the raw truth of his suffering resonated deep within me. I knew all too well the feeling of being thought of as something in need of repair, something fundamentally flawed.

“So don’t you dare fucking tell me I don’t know what self-hatred feels like,” he continued, his voice dropping to a simmer but loaded with an intensity sharper than any shout. “Every morning, I wake up and try to scrub pieces of myself off, hoping it’ll be enough to make her proud! It’s an endless battle, and I feel like I’m losing it every single day.”

Then he just… freezes. It’s as though the truth has ensnared him, spilling out raw and unfiltered, leaving him momentarily paralysed in a realm where time seems to slow. His mouth opens, a silent gasp of realisation, then snaps shut again as if the words themselves are too dangerous to utter. Fear flickers across his eyes like a candle’s flame in a gust of wind, as if he's terrified to shatter the delicate tension that hangs between us. His jaw tightens, muscles clenching, while his shoulders curl inward, as if trying to bury the confession deep within his chest where it can’t hurt him — or me.

A gnawing regret churns in my stomach, a heavy stone settling onto my shoulders, pressing down with guilt. Alonzo finally exhales, the sound escaping him like a trapped animal, heavy with unspoken words and emotion. “Kyan… I didn’t… I shouldn’t o—”

“Don’t.” The word bursts from my lips like a whip crack, and I step back, instinctively creating distance as if he was holding out to reach me — even though he wasn't. “Don’t pretend you understand me. You don’t know me at all.”

His expression shifts dramatically — not pity, nor softness; instead, it radiates a fierce, resolute intensity that sends my pulse racing, awakening something raw and primal within me.

“Then let me.” His voice is a low whisper, fraught with urgency, striking me like a blow, making my fists clench, and sending a rush of adrenaline through me at the unexpected confrontation.

“You think I want to?” My voice quivers, laced with a volatile mix of anger and vulnerability. “You think I want anyone — especially you — to see any of that?”

Alonzo’s breath hitches, tension sweeping across his features like shadows dancing before a storm. “You’re the one who started talking to me.”

“And I’m ending it.”

With that, I whirl around, my heart pounding, ready to storm away, but Alonzo’s hand closes gently around my wrist. It’s not painful, not even firm, but it’s enough to hold me back, a tether I didn’t ask for. The heat of his touch ignites something within me, and I jerk my arm away as if he’s scorched my skin.

“Don’t touch me,” I spit, though my voice quivers, betraying the cracks in my bravado — he can sense them too.

A suffocating silence descends between us, thick and heavy, each heartbeat echoing against the stillness like the ticking of a clock counting down to an inevitable confrontation.

Alonzo swallows hard, determination carved into his expression, lines of resolve etching deeper on his face. “Kyan, I’m not your enemy…”

A bitter laugh escapes me, a broken sound that drips with defensiveness. “Yeah, well, you’re not my friend either.” I shove past him deliberately, my shoulder colliding sharply with his, a fierce assertion of my will. For once, he doesn’t retaliate; he remains rooted in place, silent, his gaze heavy with something complex — something I can’t quite decipher — watching me walk away, the weight of our unspoken words hanging in the air like a thundercloud.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I swung the front door open, a rush of crisp, cool air colliding with my face, invigorating yet oddly unsettling. I didn't know where Alonzo was, and honestly, I couldn’t care any less.

“Oh seriously!” Ma’s voice echoed off the walls in frustrated disbelief at the sound of the door slamming shut, an all too familiar chorus about how I'm always causing unnecessary drama. I felt the weight of her disappointment settle over me like a thick fog and, fed up, I stormed out the back door. I knew that if I lingered in my room, she’d be knocking perpetually, her determination to pry into my troubles relentless. I had a destination in mind, a refuge where I could briefly escape the chaos that seemed to churn endlessly around me.

Pushing through a thicket of wild, overgrown bushes, their leaves scratching at my arms like insistent fingers, I finally reached my sanctuary — the old treehouse Dad had painstakingly built before everything changed. Before he transformed into a stranger, before his laughter hardened into screams. My fingers grazed the rough, splintered wood of the ladder, and I took a moment to inhale deeply, steeling myself for the ascent. Each step creaked beneath my weight, a sound that echoed with ghosts of laughter and sunshine.

When I finally reached the balcony of the treehouse, I paused for a moment, chest heaving with exertion. I had forgotten just how brutal that climb could be. I ducked to avoid the low doorway, stepping inside to be met by a cloud of dust swirling in the dim light. The stale air carried the scent of neglect, thick with memories of carefree days now long gone, moments that felt like whispers from a distant past.

Slumping into the faded leather seat in the corner, I let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to rumble through the hollow space. Everything in this place was imbued with a melancholy warmth, a scent that once smelled like pure happiness. My eyes were drawn to a picture of me and Dad, both grinning widely, as if we were invincible, the world at our feet. As I lifted it, tears threatened to spill over, an ache deep within reminding me of the man I used to know — the one who made me feel safe, not the fractured shadow I had come to dread.

“How could you?” I muttered, staring at the photograph, my voice barely a whisper as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. In a surge of raw emotion —rage mingled with grief— I hurled the picture out of the small window. The glass frame exploded against the ground below, scattering shards like broken dreams. Gritting my teeth, I fought against the tide of emotions that threatened to engulf me, desperately attempting to compose myself.

Then, a gentle knock interrupted the silence, and a wave of confusion washed over me. I thought I was alone, the only keeper of these bittersweet memories — at least the only one willing to face their weight. Wiping my tears hastily, I turned just as the creaky door began to open.

It was Abby.

“What’d you want?” I managed to ask, feigning indifference, but my voice cracked, betraying the storm roiling inside me.

“Figured that would be your reaction,” she replied coolly, sinking into the oversized beanbag chair that had once cradled our laughter. “I just noticed you seemed off and wanted to see if something was weighing on your mind.” Fuck it. She always had a knack for reading between the lines, her intuition piercing through my carefully constructed mask, but I couldn’t bring myself to open up.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” My words cut out sharper than I intended, but the way she looked at me, her expression a mix of concern and disappointment, made me feel exposed. “Seriously, there’s nothing!”

“Alright,” she said softly, the sadness creeping into her voice like shadows creeping over a landscape at dusk. “Even if I’m mad at you right now, you’re still my brother. If you ever want to talk, I’m here, you know that, right?” As she pushed herself up from the beanbag, she cast a lingering, almost hopeful glance back at me, waiting for a response that never came. With a defeated sigh, she left the treehouse, the door creaking shut behind her.

God, I was the worst brother. I buried my face in a nearby pillow, the fabric absorbing my silent sobs, offering a fragile comfort. Abby didn’t deserve a sibling like me — she was a beacon of support and understanding, a trustworthy anchor in a stormy sea. I felt like a shit brother, unworthy of her kindness, and the weight of my regret settled heavily on my chest as I cried into the pillow, wishing desperately for a chance to rewrite our story, to make things different.

I’m such a failure.

I wipe my damp eyes with the sleeve of my shirt, steeling myself for the emotional journey that lies ahead. As I slowly descend the outdated wooden ladder, each creak parrots like a distant echo from a childhood long gone — memories that feel more like a dream than a reality. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood and the faint fragrance of blooming honeysuckle from the garden, wrapping me in a bittersweet nostalgia. I tread cautiously toward the back door, dragging my feet past the same familiar bushes where I can barely make out the low murmur of my family’s distant chatter — a reminder that I am simply a spectre haunting my own home.

Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Alonzo. Our eyes lock, his gaze piercing with an intensity that makes the waning sunlight seem to set his expression ablaze. The moment stretches, heavy with unspoken words, until I quickly avert my gaze, open the door, and slip inside, hoping to remain unnoticed like a ghost fading back into the shadows.

I collapse onto the worn sofa, its fabric cool yet strangely comforting against my skin. My body feels heavy, weighed down by a mix of fatigue and an undercurrent of tension that thrums beneath the surface. With a shaky sigh, I pull out my phone, scrolling aimlessly, searching for something, anything to occupy my mind and distract me from the storm that brews in my chest.

“Are you okay, love?” Ma’s voice drifts in from the hallway, warm yet probing, cutting through my reverie. I nod but manage only a half-hearted "yeah." If Alonzo has let anything slip to her, I'm going to kill him. She offers me a brief, understanding nod before retreating down the hall. I need a cigarette, the only reliable escape from this feeling of suffocation that doesn't fill me with guilt.

Stepping out onto the front porch, I inhale deeply, the crisp evening air filling my lungs as the smoke from my cigarette rises lazily into the golden light of the fading day. The warmth of the setting sun wraps around me, providing a fleeting moment of solace. Suddenly, Alonzo clears his throat behind me.

“Fuck!” I flinch, the surprise jolting me out of my moment of solitude. “Do you always sneak up on people, or is it just me?”

“I was sitting here watching the sunset before you came out here smoking…” he replies, his voice even but infused with an underlying tension that hangs between us like a fragile strand.

“Whatever.” I glance back toward the horizon, forcing myself to ignore how his presence angers me — like I’m lurching on the edge of an eltdown. After a moment, the sounds of dishes clattering and joyful voices spilling from inside pierce the quiet, reminding me of my obligations.

“Dinner’s in five!” Ma calls out, an invitation I can’t escape, laced with an urgency that seems to fill the very air with a sense of expectation.

With a resigned sigh, Alonzo brushes off the remnants of dirt from his jeans, his movements slow and wearied, like he’s carrying the weight of an unspoken burden. “We should go in,” he suggests softly — not friendly, not hostile — just tired.

I take another drag from my cigarette, deliberately choosing to anchor myself in this fleeting moment rather than dwell on the swirling strain between us. I notice the way he glances at the bandage on my arm, but I refuse to acknowledge it. “Go ahead,” I mutter, “I’ll be there.”

For a heartbeat, he hesitates, and I can almost feel the weight of his uncertainty hanging heavily in the air before he finally steps inside, the door creaking shut behind him like the finality of a closing chapter.

Left alone now, I stare at the dying ember of my cigarette, as if it holds the answers to all my unvoiced questions. It burns quicker than usual, heat stinging my fingers as my thoughts drift dangerously close to the edge. Finally, I flick it away with an exasperated sigh, crushing it beneath my boot as I release a long, shaky breath. For a moment, I stand there on the porch, staring at the weathered floorboards as if they have personally betrayed me, mirroring the struggles within me.

Inside, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor fills the air — an ordinary symphony of household life. Someone laughs, bright and carefree, breaking through the tension that clings to me like a second skin. Someone else asks where the salt is, and life flows on, normal and unbothered by the storm brewing within me.

Wiping my clammy palms on my jeans, I square my shoulders and step back into the house, bracing myself for the inevitable.

“Where’d you want me?” I mumble as I enter the dining room, resigned to my fate. True to form, Ma has placed me right next to Alonzo.

The conversations flow like a gentle stream, but the heavy tension from our earlier clash hangs in the air like a dark cloud, threatening to unleash. Forks clink against plates, siblings chatter spiritedly, and everyone eats as if they were all in on a secret that I’m completely oblivious to. I struggle to concentrate on anything other than the reality of Alonzo sitting beside me, lost in his own world, deliberately avoiding small talk. It feels as if every pair of eyes in the room is fixated on me, waiting for me to snap, to unleash the anger I’ve desperately tried to contain — waiting for me to become like Dad.

The weight of anticipation feels suffocating, and I sense that I am walking on eggshells while my family treads carefully around the minefield of my emotions. Finally, Ma clears her throat, cutting through the tension like a sharp knife.

“Did you two get along today?” The room falls silent, a blanket of uneasy stillness settling over us. Even Ma turns quiet, an unusual sight for someone so steadfast.

“What’s it look like?” I retort, the edge in my voice unable to mask my frustration. She shoots me that look — the one that screams Don’t start.

“I’m not giving up until you two can tolerate each other. I’m not dealing with this the whole summer,” she insists, her voice steady but laced with resolve.

Just great.

I thought she might relent after our second fight, but her tone makes it clear she’s all in for round two. What more does she think she’ll force Alonzo and me to do together?

“Fine by me,” Alonzo mutters, his eyes fixed down on his plate, a hollow response mirroring my own. I grunt in reply, the tension thickening yet again between us, swirling like a storm waiting to break.

After dinner, a faint echo of muffled sobs seeped through the bathroom door, a sound that felt hauntingly familiar. It was the kind of noise I made when I tried to shield my suffering from the prying eyes of the world. I strained my ears, attempting to discern who was behind that door, when a soft but venomous curse sliced through the silence, sharp and accusatory.

It was Alonzo.

His cries were indifferent to me. I could have pounded on the door, demanded he let me in, but instead, I turned away and trudged back to my room, the heavy cloak of guilt settling around my shoulders like an oppressive shroud. I’m such a monster.

Collapsing onto my bed, I felt engulfed by the suffocating weight of my relapse, that all-too-familiar spiral back into despair. The thoughts began their relentless assault, roaring in my mind like a chorus of merciless accusations:

“I’m a disappointment.”

“I’m a failure.”

“I mortify everyone around me.”

In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control, I reached for the worn notebook my dad had gifted me one Christmas long ago, its frayed edges and yellowing pages speaking of stories yet untold. With trembling hands, I tore out a page, the papery rip echoing my inner turmoil, and began to write a letter. This wasn’t a farewell note but rather a desperate way to articulate the swirling chaos that had become my mind — just in case someone ever found it.

“Dear whoever finds me,

I’m sorry for being such a failure. I feel terrible for all the years you wasted on me, years burdened with disappointment. It’s time I pay you back; I know my suffering didn’t matter to you, and I know I’m just a burden and an attention seeker. So please, at my funeral —if there’s even one— don’t don black dresses and fake tears. Just speak the truth.

You all hated me.

— Kyan”

Tears streamed down my cheeks, soaking the page and blurring the ink as rage and self-loathing surged within me. In a fit of fury, I ripped the paper into shreds, each tear a release of pent-up emotion, and seized the notebook, hurling it out the window with all my strength.

THUD. The book landed with a dull thump on the ground below, its scattered pages resembling crumpled voices crying out in silent torment. My breath came in heavy, ragged gulps, fighting back the rising tide of despair. I longed to incinerate these wretched memories forever tied to my father’s disdain, to cleanse myself in the flames along with them.

Just as my breath steadied, though, I felt the cold, harsh touch of the blade in my hand once again, a familiar yet ominous reminder of the darkness that whispered promises of relief.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Alonzo’s POV:

Tuesday, 23rd June 4:36 AM.

My mind jolted awake long before my body caught up, a disorienting sensation that left me gasping for air in the oppressive stillness. The crackling of radio static melded with the sound of laboured breathing, creating a dissonant symphony that filled the dimly lit room. The pungent scents of bleach and melting candle wax permeated the air, wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud that threatened to swallow me whole. Then, a wave of despair crashed over me, as if invisible hands were pinning me down, while cruel laughter rang in my ears, echoing off the cracked walls. I knew exactly where I was: trapped in a nightmare that had become all too familiar.

This was a flashback, a vision I had replayed countless times before, but it felt different this time — more visceral, more intense. There, emerging from the shadows, was his figure — the pastor. I wanted to shut my eyes, to retreat into darkness and escape this tormenting memory. Yet, his whispers pierced through the haze of my mind with striking clarity, each word more cutting than the last:

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Who are you going to tell?”

“No one will believe you.”

The sickening touch lingered on my skin like an unwanted parasite, and I could hear my own muffled cries and desperate screams reverberating in the air, haunting me. Suddenly, I shot up in bed, gasping for breath, my reality shattering like fragile glass. I was back in my room, drenched in cold sweat, my cheeks slick with tears that felt too heavy for my heart to bear. I stumbled to the bathroom, my stomach churning violently as I hurled into the unforgiving confines of the toilet bowl.

“Fuck…” I whimpered, a pathetic sound laced with shame that hung heavily in the air. It felt like an eternity since my last flashback. I had worked tirelessly, navigating through the minefield of my triggers, only to find myself reduced to this — crying into the very toilet I had just vomited in, feeling trapped in a cycle of despair.

As I met my reflection in the mirror, a wave of self-loathing washed over me. I hated the face staring back at me; it felt wrong, like a distorted shadow of the person I once knew. Behind me loomed the ghost of my past self, fingers gripping my shoulder tightly, a reminder of the darkness that had consumed me.

“You’re a terrible person,” it whispered, and I couldn't deny its truth. I wasn’t proud of who I had become since that camp, where the darkness inside me had thrived unchecked. I took my pain out on those I loved the most, isolating everyone, driving them away until even my own mother looked at me with disdain, her love reduced to a thin veneer. Another wave of nausea hit me, and I doubled over the sink, expelling the contents of my stomach once more, the bile filling the silence of the empty room.

I’m my worst enemy.

After cleaning up the mess, both on myself and in the bathroom, I shuffled back to my room, feeling utterly hollow and exhausted. I sank onto my bed, craving the sweet release of sleep, yet all that returned was the relentless clamour of self-loathing echoing through my mind, drowning out any flicker of hope.

Eventually, I surrendered to the idea of trying — trying to fight through the heaviness of my despair, whether it was to irritate someone or simply to reclaim a fragment of my self-worth. I donned my favourite clothes, something bright and comfortable that could, if only for a moment, cloak the shadows. I carefully selected the jewellery I had brought with me, each piece a reminder of the person I used to be, and took the time to apply my makeup with deliberate precision.

When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help but breathe out, “Damn.” Yet the voice wasn’t mine; it belonged to Abby, who appeared in my bedroom doorway, a frown of concern etched on her features.

“I heard someone throwing up, so I came to check if you were okay,” she said gently, her eyes scanning my face for any sign of the turmoil within.

“Yeah, usually feel sick after sleep paralysis. What are you doing up, anyway?” I managed to respond, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she replied with an indifferent shrug, but I could sense that she was masking something beneath her casual demeanour. “So, why are you all dressed up?”

“I already felt like shit. I didn’t want to look like it too,” I said, forcing a weak smile that felt like an attempt to fill the gaping emptiness inside me. She chuckled softly, but it felt more like a weary sigh than genuine amusement.

“You coming down?”

I nodded, letting her lead the way as we descended the stairs. The soft jingle of my bracelets and necklaces echoed in the stillness, a melodic reminder of my fragile attempt to reclaim joy amid the chaos of my thoughts.

We slid into our usual seats at the kitchen counter, sharing gossip and light-hearted laughter. Dakota soon joined us, gracefully moving around the kitchen as she prepared breakfast, her voice infusing warmth into the early morning chill. Then came the familiar sound of heavy footsteps announcing Kyan’s arrival.

He sauntered into the room, wearing that infuriatingly smug expression that I longed to wipe off his face, as if he had no idea of the turmoil swirling beneath our surface.

“Don’t start,” he warned, his tone dripping with an air of entitlement, and I sensed the tension ripple through the room, every muscle tightening in response to the challenge that lingered between us.

“Damn, no one said nothing …” I muttered under my breath, catching the glint of his sharp gaze, which softened when it met Abby’s. I couldn’t help but hope that guilt gnawed at him for the way he treated her.

“Right, you two need to learn to tolerate each other,” Dakota said firmly, her authority cutting through the air like a sword. She shifted her piercing stare between Kyan and me, drawing an invisible line that defined our behaviour. “You’ll spend time together doing everyday things until you both act like civilised human beings. Starting with a trip to the shop down the road.”

“Seriously?” Kyan huffed, disbelief creeping into his tone.

“Uh-huh!” Dakota replied, her voice dripping with satisfaction as she effectively shut down any potential resistance. “Off you pop!”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

As I trudged alongside this infuriating boy yet again, the path to the store unfurled before us, stretching on like an endless monotony. Each step felt like a weighty burden, not just from the quietness enveloping us but also from the unspoken tension that lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. I turned to Kyan, ready to unleash an exasperated glare that would perfectly encapsulate my irritation, but then I paused, noticing the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed a nervousness I hadn’t expected.

“Are you okay?” I asked, the genuine concern in my voice catching both of us off guard. My surprise mirrored his, as compassion cut through the usual fog of annoyance that colored our interactions.

“Yeah…why?” he shot back defensively, his words tinged with irritation, as if my concern was an offence to his pride.

“Oh, nothing... It’s just that your hands were shaking, that’s all…” I replied, trying to suppress the mix of curiosity and concern bubbling inside me.

“Why do you care? You don’t even like me!” he snapped, the frustration simmering just below the surface, like a dormant volcano poised for eruption.

Damn, he’s back in one of those moods again, I thought, internal sigh escaping me as I tried to keep my composure.

“Well, you don’t exactly make it easy to,” I muttered, rolling my eyes in exasperation. We trudged forward, the atmosphere still thick with an invisible tension that seemed to grow heavier with every step.

As we approached the store, a wave of relief washed over me. The journey felt impossibly long, filled with unspoken words and a smothering unease. Kyan suddenly pulled out his phone, more engrossed in its glowing screen than the world around him, as we crossed the street. His reckless disregard consumed me with a fleeting panic. Did he have a death wish, or was he truly that oblivious?

“C’mon, I want to be in and out of here,” he said, his voice sharp and irritated, grating against my already frayed nerves. I shrugged and began flinging a few essential items into the cart, attempting to ignore his mood.

“You think we’re rich or something?” he shot back, his tone biting as if he were scolding me over something I had no control over.

“I’ll pay! I’m here for the summer; I might as well make myself useful,” I replied, keeping my tone calm. Determination coursed through me, a silent vow not to let his dramatics get under my skin. The items I selected were hardly extravagant; he was simply overreacting, yet his attitude twisted my insides with irritation.

As Kyan reached for a bag of bright, glossy oranges and tossed them into the cart, a cold knot formed in my stomach. A familiar dread crept in — He already hated me, now he's going to think I'm just being difficult. He must know about my allergy, right?

“Uh, I have a citrus allergy…” I said, my voice carrying a slight tremor as anxiety nudged at me, turning what should be a casual disclosure into a trembling admission.

“Okay?” he replied dismissively, shrugging as if my concern was trivial and not worth a second thought.

“Like, it’s serious… if the fruit is cut or peeled, worst case scenario I go into anaphylactic shock,” I added, my heart racing as the weight of my words hung suspended in the air between us like a fragile balloon, ready to pop at any moment.

He grunted in annoyance, and with a sudden flash of anger, hurled the oranges back onto the shelf. They landed with an exasperated thud, and he shot me a glare that radiated disbelief, as if I’d just committed an unforgivable sin.

After what felt like an eternity immersed in unyielding silence, we finally made our way to the checkout. The cart brimmed with a mix of mundane groceries and high-tension moments, and I ached for a release from this suffocating atmosphere. The cashier, with her practised efficiency, scanned our items, her voice almost mechanical, a stark contrast to the emotional chaos swirling around us.

“Will that be all for today?” she asked, and I nodded, fumbling for my wallet, relief racing through me as normalcy seemed just around the corner.

But Kyan, in his familiar impatient manner, snatched a couple of bags off the floor and strode away briskly, his need for speed glaringly evident. I rolled my eyes at his dramatics and quickly grabbed the remaining bags, thanking the cashier and hurrying to catch up with him. The tension still crackled in the air like the remnants of a storm hovering overhead.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

As I walked home, the fading light caught Kyan’s figure, his spare hand trailing along the weathered wooden fence, fingers grazing its rough surface almost absently. A silent part of me wished he would snag his hand on a lurking splinter or a rusty screw — something to awaken him from whatever dark thoughts seemed to be consuming him.

“Ah, shit,” I heard him mutter, the sound heavy with resignation. I glanced down at him, my heart plummeting into the depths of my stomach as he pulled up his sleeve. The sight sent chills racing through me. Scars marred his skin — some still fresh, others pale and ghostly against his flesh. I knew what those scars were.

Even before this moment, I had sensed something was off about Kyan. He always wore long sleeves, bandages, and occasionally an extra jacket as though he were hiding more behind those empty eyes of his. Now, staring at the jagged lines etched into his skin, everything clicked into place. The pieces I’d previously ignored were now painfully visible, as if a blurry photograph had finally come into sharp focus.

He captured my gaze, a flicker of hope shimmering in his eyes, as if he was silently pleading for me not to uncover the truth lurking in the depths of his soul. Yet that glimmer vanished in an instant, the moment realisation crashed over him like a tidal wave, dragging with it any semblance of the facade he had so carefully maintained.

“Don't say anything,” he warned, urgency lacing his voice like barbed wire — sharp, jagged, and unyielding. It echoed my instinctive reaction when someone stumbled upon the hidden scars of my own existence.

“Kyan, trust me, keeping quiet won’t solve anything—”

“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!” he shouted, his voice raw and jagged, reverberating against the encroaching dusk, as if the universe itself bore witness to our spiralling conflict. “YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO LOATHE YOURSELF FOR WHO YOU ARE.”

Oh shit.

Deep down, I had always suspected there was a storm raging beneath his composed facade. The way he cared just a little too much about whether someone was gay, whispered of unspoken battles. Perhaps he’d felt a spark of envy toward me — a reflection of the self-loathing I had grappled with for so long. It was like staring into a distorted mirror, where we both bore the same scars, shared the same hatred, and suffocated under the weight of our guilt.

“Maybe I do!” I shot back, my voice trembling with defiance, barely containing the tempest of emotions churning within. “Want to talk about self-hatred? You wouldn’t last a second enduring what I’ve been through!” My frustration boiled over, seeping through the cracks in my carefully crafted facade.

“Oh, that’s total bullshit!” His hand waved dismissively, the energy crackling in the air between us — a charged current of unbridled emotion that felt almost tangible.

In a fit of rage, I dropped my bags, the thud echoing like a drumbeat of desperation in the still evening air. I closed the distance between us and slapped him — harder than I had ever struck anyone. The sting resonated through my hand, but the dreadful weight of my anger demanded more. I pushed him down, watching as his bags tumbled to the ground, each blow a painful reminder of our excruciating similarities.

Eventually, he gathered the strength to shove me away, shock swirling in his eyes as he yelled, “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” I nearly howled, adrenaline coursing through me, making my voice tremble with the force of pent-up emotion. “You’ve dismissed every part of me without even trying to understand who I truly am! You think my life is a never-ending dream? That I’m just some self-absorbed dick?” Vulnerability slipped through my defences, exposing a crack in my now-fragile armour.

“Yeah, because that’s exactly who you are! You’re a selfish prick! And let me tell you, being called a faggot doesn’t automatically mean you’re traumatised!”

Fury bubbled inside me, igniting every fibre of my being and preparing me to lash out once more. Part of me ached to spill my past, to unravel the story of the camp that had tried to “fix” me. But the memories tightened around my throat like a vice — a harsh reminder of how they had twisted my reality. I had to rein myself in; I craved a clean slate.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” Disbelief dripped from my words, each syllable heavy with unspoken pain.

“Then what the hell are you talking about?” he spat, his anger unravelling, cracking under the weight of our raw exchange.

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips, echoing against the gathering shadows. “You think I’m here for fun? For some sort of laugh? My mum shipped me off as if I were a broken toy she didn’t want anymore!” My voice wavered, each word laced with the pain of abandonment. “She thought maybe the fresh air would fix me! Maybe surrounding me with people like you would teach me what 'normal' looks like.”

Kyan's fury shifted, replaced by a flicker of something akin to respect — or was it empathy? It cast shadows across his features, but I couldn’t be sure what it meant.

“So don’t you dare fucking tell me I don’t know what self-hatred feels like,” I pressed on, my voice dropping to an intense simmer, sharp enough to slice through the thickening tension in the air. “Every morning, I wake up and try to scrub pieces of myself away, hoping it’ll be enough to make her proud! It’s a relentless battle, and I feel like I’m losing it each and every day.”

The weight of my words hung heavy between us, suffocating in its intensity. I froze, suddenly hyper-aware of the emotional burden I had just unburdened onto someone who seemed to despise me mere moments ago. Time stretched, my mouth opening then quickly closing as fear flickered within — a small, trembling lantern in a vast, dark cave. Now he looked… guilty.

“Kyan… I didn’t… I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t.”

The word sliced through the tension like a whip crack, his voice trembling with unacknowledged emotion. “Don’t pretend you know me. You don’t know a damn thing about who I am.”

“Then let me,” I whispered, urgency tightening my chest, desperation clawing at my throat.

“You think I want this?” His voice wavered, anger twisting into a fragile dance of raw vulnerability. “You think I want anyone — especially you — to see any part of that?”

“You’re the one who started talking to me.”

“And I’m ending it.”

With that, he attempted to spin away, but instinctively, my hand reached out, gently grasping his wrist — not violently, just enough to halt him in his tracks. He jerked away as if my touch burned, the flicker of connection snuffed out in an instant.

Our eyes locked in a silent confrontation, an unspoken tension crackling in the charged air between us — a palpable reminder of everything left unsaid, buried beneath layers of history and hurt. He stormed past me, our shoulders colliding with the force of crashing waves, sending ripples of shock through my very core as if the ground beneath us shifted. I remained motionless, rooted to that spot, an unwilling witness to the tempest of emotions swirling within me.

My breath came in heavy, uneven gasps, each inhalation thick with the weight of unacknowledged feelings, while a fog enveloped my thoughts, clouding my ability to process the magnitude of the moment. Every unspoken word and every cover of the wrists replayed in my mind, leaving a bitter taste of regret. All the signs had been laid bare before me, stark and undeniable like a map I had been too blind to read. How had I, of all people, managed to remain blissfully ignorant of the unfolding reality? The realisation crashed over me like a wave, sowing seeds of confusion and sorrow in its wake.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I finally arrived home long after Kyan had already settled in. The familiar scene primarily surprised me — he had left me with four bulging shopping bags, the weight of which tugged insistently at my arms, making my fingers ache slightly.

“Oh, let me help you with those!” Dakota called out, her voice shining like sunlight through a gloomy evening. She scampered toward me, her enthusiasm infectious, and took two of the bags effortlessly from my grip. I chuckled softly at her eagerness and thanked her sincerely, feeling a rush of gratitude as I trudged into the kitchen with the remaining bags, the aroma of whatever was simmering on the stove wafting through the air.

As we began to unpack, I noticed Dakota’s expression twist into one of confusion as she scrutinised the brand labels on the items nestled in the bags. She picked up a brand-name item and raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Uh, all this was way out of budget…” she murmured, mostly to herself, her brows furrowing deeply in concern as if it were a personal failing.

“Oh no, it’s fine — I paid for it,” I replied nonchalantly, attempting to ease her worries with a wave of my hand. But as I glanced up, I caught her eye, and a flicker of disbelief darted across her face.

“Why’d you do that for?” she asked, her tone half-accusatory but laced with an undertone of happiness that she couldn’t quite conceal, as if she were simultaneously thrilled and apprehensive about my generosity.

I shrugged, echoing what I had told Kyan earlier. “I’m staying here for the summer; I may as well make myself useful! Plus, I wanted to treat you guys a little…”

“Well, thank you!” she said, her polite smile illuminating the kitchen with warmth, momentarily dispelling the room's earlier tension.

After placing the last item neatly in the cupboard, I turned and made my way over to the worn leather sofa, where Abby sat curled up, a faint look of distress etched across her face like a shadow.

“You alright?” I asked gently, my smile faltering as she shook her head silently, her gaze cast down as if searching for something in the worn rug beneath us. “What’s wrong?” I pressed, settling down beside her, feeling the familiar creak of the old sofa beneath our combined weight.

“Kyan just seems off…” The weight of her words settled heavily between us like a thick fog. Oh fuck, I knew I had to put my acting skills to the test; this wasn’t my truth to share.

“Don’t look at me like that…I know what he said to us was wrong…but at the end of the day, he’s still my brother,” Abby’s voice softened, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. I sensed the internal conflict swirling within her.

“True,” I nodded slowly, meeting her gaze with all the compassion I could muster, unsure how much my words could soothe her.

“What would you do?” she inquired, her eyes searching mine, desperate and earnest, as if I held the key to her dilemma.

“Hm?” I replied, slightly caught off guard, unsure how to respond.

“Well, do you have any siblings?” The question hung there, a quiet challenge wrapped in sincerity.

“I did,” I said, my voice wavering as a familiar sting of sorrow pricked at my heart, forcing up emotions I had thought were long buried.

“Well, what happened?” she pressed, her concern weaving into her voice, making it soft and warm like a lullaby.

“She passed away from cancer a couple of years ago.” I watched her expression shift dramatically; understanding flickered in her eyes, a silent acknowledgement of shared grief as my own threatened to spill over. Just then, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around me, offering comfort without the need for words. “So, my best advice is to talk to him. You never know if it’s your last day with someone,” I managed to say, my voice trembling around the edges. She nodded against me, absorbing the weight of my words, the gravity of situations unspoken yet deeply felt. “Go on, go talk to him. He’s probably hurting too.”

With newfound resolve gleaming in her eyes, she stood and smiled at me before rushing out to the garden, her determination palpable. I wiped my eyes, smudging my eyeliner slightly and feeling a confusing mix of relief and sadness ache in my chest.

DING! My phone chirped, jerking me back to reality. I picked it up, glancing at the screen, and my heart sank a little at the message from my band’s group chat.

𝔎𝔦𝔱𝔬 🗡️: “@A🫧 Bro are you okay? You haven’t texted or shown up for rehearsals in like forever.”

Is she joking? I had told them I’d be gone for the summer! It had barely been four days since I last texted them and a week since I last joined them for rehearsal. Wiping my eyes, I began typing furiously.

A🫧: “Are you for real? I told you guys that I’m in the countryside for the summer because my mother shipped me off…”

 

𝔎𝔦𝔱𝔬 🗡️: “Oh wait, that makes a lot of sense actually.”

 

Elaine! <3: “Are there any hot country boys there???”

 

A🫧: “No, Elaine, there’s not.”

 

𝔎𝔦𝔱𝔬 🗡️: “Could you stop thirsting for men for one second?”

 

Elaine! <3: “Wait, how are you even texting us if you’re in the countryside?”

Is she serious?

A🫧: “I’m not hanging out with the Amish, lmao.”

 

A🫧: “Anyways, I gotta go now! Bye!!”

 

The group chat filled with animated goodbyes, a flurry of emojis and farewell wishes creating a lighthearted buzz that momentarily lifted my spirits. I pushed myself off the sofa and stepped onto the front porch, sinking down onto the creaky swing, my mind swirling.

The sunset sprawled across the horizon in breathtaking splendour, dazzling hues of pink, orange, and gold swirling together in a scene that felt as if an artist had spilt their palette across the sky. If my band didn’t work out, I often mused, I’d probably pursue a career as a nature photographer. The world was so undeniably beautiful, and it pained me deeply that some people failed to appreciate it, choosing instead to mar its splendour with problems that felt so trivial in comparison.

Just then, the door swung open, and Kyan trudged out, a pack of cigarettes clutched tightly in his hand, an all too familiar sight that set my teeth on edge. I cleared my throat, the sound startling him. I bit back laughter, wanting to avoid any unnecessary argument.

“Do you always sneak up on people, or is it just me?” he shot back, irritation lacing his tone, eyes narrowed against the fading light.

“I was sitting here enjoying the sunset before you came out here smoking…” I responded evenly, though I could feel the underlying tension crackling between us like electricity, thick and uncomfortable.

“Whatever,” he muttered, turning back towards the sunset as if it held all the answers to his troubles. His presence grated on me, a sharp stone nestled in the otherwise tranquil landscape, threatening to dull the view I cherished.

The sounds of dinner preparation from inside suddenly halted as the moment hung between us, heavy with unspoken words and lingering frustration.

“Dinner’s in five!”

With a resigned sigh, I brushed the dirt from my jeans, fixing my gaze on him. He must know the burden he’d placed upon me with his secret. “We should go in,” I suggested softly, more weary than angry.

“Go ahead” He mumbles, “I'll be there.

For a heartbeat, uncertainty held me captive. I wanted to say something, needed to, but the words fizzled out. Instead, I turned and walked inside, the scratch of the door echoing behind me.

Inside, the clatter of chairs meeting the floor filled the air — the pleasant hum of conversations and gentle laughter mingling together, a stark contrast to the heaviness that followed Kyan and me.

“Where’d you want me?” Kyan mumbled as he entered the dining room. Dakota had, of course, placed him right next to me.

The atmosphere was thick with unspoken words as conversations flowed like a gentle stream, all while the dark cloud of tension from earlier loomed overhead, threatening to burst at any moment.

Forks clinked against plates, but everyone seemed on edge, exchanging furtive glances that inevitably landed on Kyan — expectation etched on their faces, as if waiting for a tempest to surface.

Finally, Dakota cleared her throat, slicing through the tension. “Did you two get along today?” she asked, the room falling into an uneasy silence, even Skye and Mae — usually so chatty — grew quiet, Dakota’s gaze shifted toward her son.

“What’s it look like?” Kyan snapped sarcastically, the sharp edge in his voice echoing my own frustration.

“I’m not giving up until you two can tolerate each other. I’m not dealing with this the whole summer,” she insists, her voice steady but laced with resolve.

“Fine by me,” I mutter, my eyes fixed down on my plate, Kyan just grunts in response, I just roll my eyes and shove another spoonful of food in my mouth

After dinner, I helped clear the table, my heart heavy with a swirling shame that knotted in my stomach like a tight coil. I shouldn’t have hit Kyan. The memory of that moment replayed in my mind, gnawing at me like a relentless parasite. I felt like the worst kind of person — one who couldn't keep their anger in check.

I trudged into the bathroom, the soft click of the lock echoing in the stillness, reinforcing my retreat from the world outside. Standing in front of the mirror, I faced my own reflection, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. As I locked eyes with my reflection, I was met by the familiar shadow of my past self, a spectre of shame grinning back at me with a mocking smile that twisted his lips.

“People never change, Alistair, and you’re living proof of that,” he whispered, his voice slithering into my thoughts. My heart raced, and I felt my lip quiver involuntarily; I placed a trembling hand over my mouth, desperate to stifle any sound. I couldn’t let anyone hear the turmoil within me.

“Don’t call me that,” I grunted, my voice breaking under the weight of my emotions, thick with frustration and sorrow. I gazed deeper into the mirror, searching for the boy I used to be — the carefree child who never let fear or anger cloud his judgment. But all I found was a reflection of someone weary and lost, a figure worn down by regret.

A wave of nausea washed over me, threatening to pull me under. I swung the bathroom door open and fled to my bedroom, the sanctuary I once cherished. Yet, as I sank into the sheets, the familiar comfort felt strangely foreign, a dissonance that made my heart ache. The weight of memories pressed down on me, each one a reminder of happier times now seemingly out of reach. I hadn’t encountered a hallucination or flashback in what felt like ages, yet today, it had struck me twice like a cruel twist of fate. Bewildered, I wished I could grasp the reason behind this resurgence of my past.

I desperately missed my friends — their spontaneous laughter that echoed through the air, their warmth that wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. They would have known just what to say to pull me from this spiralling darkness, to breathe life back into my dimming spirit. They would have insisted on celebrating my upcoming birthday, dragging me out to enjoy life instead of letting me wallow in my own regrets. But now, with my birthday looming just three days away, I was stuck facing the prospect of spending it with a boy who detested me, a fate I had never imagined.

A fresh wave of sobs overtook me, tears streaming down my cheeks like a relentless downpour as I wished, more than anything, that I was home. It had initially felt like a relief to escape my mother’s suffocating grip, her expectations weighing heavily on my shoulders. Yet now, the ache of longing for my friends gnawed at my heart like a persistent hunger.

This was all so frustratingly pointless. I just wanted to go home. Maybe back there, the flashbacks would fade away, and I could pretend that life could return to some semblance of normalcy. But instead, I found myself trapped in a town shrouded in unfamiliarity, yearning for a place where I felt safe and understood.

I just want to go home.