Ashley's pov
slammed the door so hard that the frames hanging on the wall rattled like startled birds. The sound echoed through the hallway — sharp, final — and for a brief, satisfying second, I felt powerful.
"Did you just slam the door at us Ashley?!" my mother's voice came slicing through from the other side, her tone somewhere between disbelief and fury.
I yanked the door open, face hot with anger. "Yes, I did!" I shouted back, every word tasting like rebellion — and before she could reply, I slammed it again. Harder. The floor trembled beneath my feet.
My chest rose and fell, fast and uneven. I hated how they made me feel like a child, like every move I made had to be approved, inspected, and stamped with their permission. I was seventeen, not seven. I had only been out for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes! And all I did was walk across the road to Luhle's house. Not to a club, not to the next city — just across the street.
But to my parents, I traveled the whole world.
They'd given me a twenty-five-minute sermon about danger and safety and responsibility — about kidnappers, reckless behavior, "what could have happened," and the classic: we're only trying to protect you. I'd heard it all before.
And maybe that was the moment something in me finally cracked.
Because I was tired. Tired of being protected from a life I wasn't even allowed to live. Tired of walls and locked gates and windows that only opened halfway. So, yeah — I yelled back this time. I told them I was done being treated like a prisoner. That I couldn't breathe in this house anymore.
They yelled louder, of course — my dad's voice booming like thunder, my mom's like lightning snapping in the air. Their anger filled the house, filling every space until I could barely think. So I did the only thing that made sense in that moment: I walked away.
It made things worse.
They called after me, but I didn't listen.
Because nothing they said was fair.
I've spent sixteen years of my life trapped behind these walls, homeschooled and hidden, like I was some fragile secret the world couldn't see. Every time I even looked toward the front door, my mom would appear out of nowhere — "Where are you going?" "Why are you standing there?" "Come back inside."
I used to think they were just being careful. But as I got older, I realized it wasn't care — it was control.
Sure, I had everything a kid could want — the latest phone, clothes, shelves full of books, endless snacks — but I didn't have a single real friend. Not one.
My brother, Ash, doesn't count. He's barely home anymore. He's the opposite of me — loud, fearless, reckless. He gets into fights, sneaks out at night, hangs with people our parents hate. They still talk about him like he's just "going through a phase," but we all know better. He's been gone — not physically, but emotionally — for a long time.
Sometimes I envy him. Because at least he lives.
And me? I'm the quiet one, the "good one," the perfect daughter they can keep under their thumbs.
At least, I was.
Then, one day, everything changed.
A new family moved into the house opposite ours. I remember the day they arrived — the moving truck blocking half the street, boxes stacked like towers, laughter spilling from their front yard. And in the middle of it all was her — Luhle.
I used to watch her from my window, the way she talked and laughed so freely with her friends. There was something so easy about her — like she belonged to the world in a way I never did.
Sometimes, when she caught me looking, she'd wave. Just a small, simple wave — and it made something flutter in my chest. I'd always wave back, shy and hesitant, then quickly pull the curtains shut before Mom or Dad saw.
But that smile of hers… it stayed with me.
And maybe it was that smile that finally made me do it — the impossible thing.
One morning, heart pounding, palms sweating, I opened the front door. The air outside hit my face like freedom — warm and real and terrifying. I stood there for a second, listening for footsteps, for my mother's voice, for the sound of the door creaking open behind me.
But nothing came.
So I took a step forward. Then another.
And so I had left the house that day to see her face to face.
For the first time, the world outside didn't feel like something far away behind a windowpane. It was right there, open and breathing around me — the scent of grass, the rustle of leaves, the sound of laughter echoing from somewhere down the street. It all felt strange and alive.
Across the road, near the corner of her yard, stood that big oak tree I'd seen a thousand times from my bedroom window. Its branches stretched wide like open arms, and tied to one of them was a single wooden swing that swayed gently in the breeze.
And there she was — Luhle — sitting on that swing, phone in hand, her legs tucked underneath as she scrolled through her screen. She looked so effortlessly calm, so free. The kind of free I'd only ever dreamed about.
I stood at the edge of the pavement, frozen. My heart was pounding so fast it hurt. For a split second, I thought about running back inside before she could notice me.
What if she wouldn't like me? What if she'd think I was weird for looking at her through the window all the time?
My fingers tightened around the hem of my sweater. I kept glancing back at my house — the curtains, the front door, the safety of being unseen. I was battling myself: half of me screaming to go back, the other half desperate to take one more step forward.
I had just decided to turn back when I heard her voice.
"Hey!"
I froze.
She had looked up from her phone, eyes bright and warm, her smile stretching wide. She hopped off the swing and started walking toward me — light, confident steps crunching against the gravel.
By the time she reached halfway across the road, I felt like my knees had turned to jelly.
"Hi…" I managed, the word barely escaping my throat as I twisted the hem of my sweater nervously.
She was a lighter shade of brown, her skin glowing under the afternoon sun. Her braids shimmered when she moved — neat, golden-tipped, and stylish. I'd always wanted braids, but my mother never allowed it. She said it was "too distracting," though she never explained why.
We stood there for a moment, caught between awkwardness and curiosity, the air thick with unspoken things.
"Um, it's nice to finally meet you in person," she said, smiling softly. "I'm Luhle." She lifted her hand for a handshake.
I hesitated. Touch wasn't something I was used to outside of my family. But she waited patiently, her smile unwavering, and something about her kindness made me reach out.
"I'm… Ashley," I said, my voice small as I shook her hand.
Her smile widened. "Your eyes are so unique," she said, studying me in wonder. "I've never seen a Black person with green eyes before."
I looked away, shrugging a little. "Yeah, it's… a weird genetic thing, I guess." My parents always said not to talk about it, that it made people "ask questions." Maybe that was another reason they didn't want me going out — so no one could see.
"I knew you were real!" she said suddenly, laughing.
I blinked, confused. "What does that mean?"
"Oh, my friends — they think you're like, a ghost or something!" she said between giggles. "They always say, 'That girl in the window never comes out. Maybe she's not real.' But I told them you were. And now—" she waved her hands toward me dramatically "—I have proof!"
I laughed. Really laughed. The sound surprised even me — it felt so light, so strange, so good.
She grinned. "See? You're not that scary after all."
We both laughed again, and for a brief moment, the world felt simple.
Then she said, "My friends are coming over tomorrow. If you'd like, you can join us."
The words hung in the air like a bright invitation. My chest swelled with excitement — but then I remembered them. My parents. The rules. The locks.
My smile faltered. "Uhmm… I don't think that'll be possible," I said softly.
"Aww, really?" she asked, her voice genuinely disappointed. "That's okay, though. There's always next time."
"Yeah… next time," I echoed, even though I wasn't sure there would ever be one.
She shrugged it off with that same bright energy. "Let me give you my number then!" she said, pulling out her phone.
I hesitated again, but took mine out. When she saw it, her eyes widened.
"No way! You have the latest iPhone?!" she said, practically bouncing. "Your parents must be rich!"
I laughed awkwardly. "You can put it that way. I don't really care about it, though. It's just a phone. It could break anytime."
She tilted her head, studying me like she was trying to figure something out. Then she grinned again and saved my number.
"There! Now you have no excuse not to text me," she said teasingly.
I smiled, though I was already glancing back toward my house. The curtains hadn't moved… yet.
"I should go," I said quickly walking back to the house.
"Okay, text me, okay?" she said, "Wait—Ashley, right?" she called and I turned.
"Yeah! Luhle, right?"
"Yeah!"
We both laughed again, and I waved before rushing back across the road, my heart thudding wildly.
When I closed the gate behind me, I was practically buzzing with joy. I had done it — I had finally spoken to someone my own age, made a real friend. And best of all, I hadn't been caught.
Or so I thought.
I turned the doorknob slowly, pushing the front door open with the quietest creak I could manage. But as soon as I stepped inside —
There she was.
My mother.
Standing in the hallway, arms folded, her face carved from stone.
"Where were you?" she asked, her voice sharp and cold.
My breath hitched. "I was just… by the lawn. I didn't leave the gates or anything," I said quickly, forcing a casual smile that didn't reach my eyes.
Her eyes narrowed. "What did we say about—"
"—leaving the house," I finished for her. "I know. But I just… needed some fresh air. You don't let me go anywhere, so the least you can do is let me stand on the grass."
For a moment, her expression didn't change. Then her jaw tightened.
"Ashley Patricia Zion," she said slowly, her tone low and warning, "you will never do what you did again. Do you hear me?"
Her words were hard, final — the kind that didn't leave room for argument.
I swallowed, eyes stinging with tears I refused to let fall. "Okay…" I whispered, my voice small beneath the weight of her anger.
And as she turned away, I looked past her toward the window — the one that faced the tree, the swing, and the small piece of freedom I had just touched for the very first time.