By the time I get home, the light is already fading. I let myself in quietly, slipping the key into the lock and nudging the door shut without a sound. The hallway is dim, the stale scent of old smoke and cooking oil hanging in the air like a curtain I walk through every day. No one greets me.
Of course not.
The TV murmurs low from the living room. My mom must be in there, curled up in her blanket, her eyes unfocused, locked onto a rerun of something she's seen a hundred times before. I don't go in. She won't notice anyway.
I head to my room and drop my bag beside my desk. My sketchbook is still open from this morning. A half-finished drawing of a cracked statue—one of those old Roman ones with the sad eyes and broken limbs. I run my fingers across the edge of the paper, then close the book. I should start my homework. I should.
Instead, I sit on the bed and just breathe. The silence in this apartment is thick. Not peaceful. Never peaceful. Just quiet enough to hear your thoughts race. Minutes pass.
Then I hear it. The door creaks open. Heavy footsteps. Slower than usual. Uneven.
I tense. My bedroom door bursts open without a knock. My father fills the frame, a shadow more than a man. His shirt is wrinkled, and I can already smell the alcohol.
He doesn't say anything right away. Just stares. My stomach twists.
"I got a call," he finally mutters, slurring. "Your math test. You got an 84."
That's a good grade. For anyone else.
I scramble to my feet. "It was the highest in class. I swear. The average was—"
His hand moves before the words are out. I flinch back, but he doesn't hit me, surprisingly. Not yet. Just raises his voice.
"You think I care about averages? You think that makes it okay? You're slipping. Just like your mother. Useless."
That last word stung. And the fact that he was talking about mom like that. I stand frozen, heart hammering. He steps closer, hand twitching. Then—he stops. Surprisingly. He scoffs, turns, and walks out, slamming the door behind him. I exhale so hard it shakes. My knees give out, and I sit back on the bed, arms wrapped around myself. I bite down on my hoodie sleeve to keep from making a sound.
Outside my window, the city is glowing. So full of life. So far away. I stay there until the silence becomes bearable again.
———————————————————————————————
The next day at school, everything feels sharper. Like the colours are too bright, the voices too loud. I keep my head down, eyes fixed on my notes. Luca is in his seat already when I walk into class. He looks normal. Not like yesterday. But i catch it again—the bruise under his eye, faint but real. He doesn't look at me. Not once.
But when we're called to work in groups, fate being the cruel thing it is, our names land together. Along with two others. We sit across from each other, both pretending not to care. He flips through the packet with practiced boredom.
"I'll do number two and four. You take one and three." His voice is flat. No teasing. No challenge. I nod. "Fine."
We work in silence, scribbling answers. The others talk, but not to us. I don't know what they see from the outside. Rivals. Ice and fire. Or maybe just two kids too tired to fight today.
When class ends, he's already up and gone. I stare at the empty seat. I'm not sure what I expected. But I hate that a part of me noticed he was hurting.
And I hate even more that a part of me wants to understand why.