I pack up the guitar in silence. My fingers are still twitching with energy like they're not ready to stop. But I can't stay any longer. My mom's waiting. Or at least, she said she would be.
Outside, the sky's dimming. The streets are smeared in gold and gray, shadows stretching long across the pavement. I keep my head down, headphones in, but no music. Just silence. I like pretending the world is on mute.
When I get home, the apartment smells like dust and old coffee. The lights are off, even though it's nearly dark.
"Mom?"
No answer.
I find her in the bedroom, curled up in her robe with the curtains shut. The TV is on, some quiz show playing to no one.
"I'm back", I say softly. She nods, barely. Doesn't look at me. I want to sit beside her, but I don't. I never know if it helps.
In my room, I dump my bag and lock the door. Always lock the door. My heart's already beating too fast, wondering if he is home yet.
The walls are thin. I hear footsteps. Then silence. Then the fridge door opening.
I sit on the floor, back against the bed, sketchbook on my knees. I draw. It's the only thing that doesn't ask questions. But my hand keeps slipping. I press harder. The pencil breaks.
For some reason, my eyes sting. It's stupid. I've been through worse. But something about today—about playing loud, and letting something out—sticks in my skin.
I don't want it to matter.
But still, when I finally fall asleep, I dream of music. Not polished. Not clean. Just loud enough to drown everything else out.