A knock pulls me out of a shallow, restless sleep. I groan and grab the extra pillow, pressing it over my ears like it can shut the world out.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
"Nick," my mother calls, her voice cutting through the door, "breakfast is ready."
Something about her tone makes my chest tighten. She sounds… sharp. Not angry. Just stretched thin.
"I'll be down in a minute, Mom," I say, forcing my voice to sound normal.
"All right," she replies, already moving away.
I sit up slowly. My head throbs, not with pain, but with the echo of last night—images pressing at the edges of my thoughts. I shake them off and drag myself into the bathroom.
The mirror stops me cold.
Dried blood streaks my face, dark and cracked along my cheekbone and jaw. For a second, I don't recognize myself. My stomach twists.
"Damn it," I mutter.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray, scrubbing too hard, too fast. Water runs pink, then clear, then pink again. I keep washing until my skin burns and my hands shake. I don't let myself look too closely after. I just dry off, throw on my uniform, and grab my bag.
That's when I see the clothes.
Torn fabric scattered across the floor. Stiff with blood. Evidence I somehow forgot in my exhaustion. My heart stutters. I scoop everything up and shove it into my bag without folding, without thinking, zip it closed like that will erase it.
Downstairs, the house feels wrong.
The dining table is set. Breakfast is ready. But the usual noise—my mother talking about neighbors, work, anything—has vanished. The silence hums louder than conversation ever does.
My father sits at the head of the table, newspaper open, coffee steaming beside it. His posture is straight, composed, exactly the same as always. My mother sits across from him, hands folded around her mug. She's not drinking it.
Both of them look up when I step into the room.
I take my seat, my movements careful, controlled. Too controlled.
"Are you in trouble, son?" my mother asks quietly.
The question lands heavier than if she'd shouted.
I freeze for half a second, then shake my head. "No."
My father lowers his newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet mine. Calm. Sharp. Unforgiving.
"Then explain the bloodied uniform in the trash," he says, "and your broken watch."
My gaze drops to my wrist. The cracked glass catches the light. I forgot about that too. My mind scrambles, grasping for anything solid.
"John—" I blurt. "John got into an accident."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I've failed. My parents know John's parents. They always do. My jaw tightens. Somewhere deep down, a bitter thought slips through—I wish he had.
My father doesn't react. He just looks at me longer, like he's peeling back layers I don't want exposed.
I exhale. "Okay. That was a lie." My voice comes out smaller than I intend. "Jerry and I—we ran into a group. Things got heated. We fought."
My mother is on her feet instantly. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she cups my face, turning it gently from side to side. Her fingers are warm. Careful.
"Let me see," she says, already reaching for the buttons of my polo. "Are you hurt? Where did they hit you?"
"Mom," I say quickly, catching her wrist. Not rough. Just enough to stop her. "I'm okay. Really. Just a few bruises."
She pauses. Her lips press together. "So there are bruises." She pulls her hand back and sighs. "Stay there. I'll get the ointment."
"Don't bother," I say, maybe too fast. "It's fine."
My father sets his cup down with a soft clink. "A normal fistfight doesn't leave that much blood, Nick."
The room feels smaller.
"Tell me the truth."
My chest tightens. I don't know why I say it—maybe because it's easier than the real one.
"I… I stabbed someone. By accident."
My mother gasps, one hand flying to her mouth. My father's brow creases, just slightly, but that's enough.
"Did you kill him?" she asks, her voice trembling.
"No," I say quickly. "No. I just… cut his arm. That's all."
"Oh," she exhales.
For a split second, I think I see something else cross her face. Not relief. Something heavier. Disappointment, maybe, I don't know. She covered it up fast with a smile before I can see it clearly.
My father checks his watch and folds the newspaper. "It's time to go."
He stands, calm as ever. "Next time, avoid trouble. Don't make your mother worry."
"Yes, sir," I say.
As I sling my bag over my shoulder, its weight feels wrong—too heavy for books alone. My mother watches me like she wants to say more but doesn't know how. My father already has his attention on his suitcase.
My father and I went to school in his car as usual. The travel was awkwardly quite. The engine hum fills the space between us, steady and low, but it does nothing to ease the tension. The city slides past the windows—shops opening, students walking in small groups—but inside the car, everything feels stalled. I sit stiff in the passenger seat, both hands gripping the strap like it might run away if I let go.
He doesn't turn on the radio.
That alone tells me he's thinking.
After a few minutes, he speaks without looking at me. "Do you want to tell the truth now?"
The question is calm. No anger. No accusation. Somehow, that makes it worse.
"I really just got caught up in trouble yesterday," I say, staring straight ahead. "It wasn't serious, Dad."
He nods once, eyes still on the road. The traffic light turns red. He stops, fingers resting lightly on the steering wheel.
"Are you sure?" he asks. "Then what's in the bag?"
My throat tightens. I shift the bag slightly, like the movement alone might make the lie believable. "Just some school project."
The light turns green. He drives on.
For a moment, I think that's it—that he's letting it go. Then he reaches into the compartment beside his seat and pulls out a small card. He holds it between two fingers and sets it on the console, not pushing it toward me, not forcing my hand.
"Go there after your classes," he says. "Tell him I sent you. He'll have what you need."
I frown. "I don't need anything."
He glances at me then—just a brief look, sharp and knowing. "I'm not like your mother," he says quietly. "I know you. And I know you're hiding something."
My chest tightens. I open my mouth, but he cuts me off gently, raising one hand.
"I'm not going to press you," he continues. "Not now. You'll tell us when you're ready."
The words aren't forgiving, but they aren't cruel either. They sit somewhere in between, heavy and patient.
I look down at my hands. I don't trust myself to speak.
"Just go there later," he adds. "You still have pocket money, right?"
"Yeah," I say after a second. "Thank you, Dad."
He nods once and turns his attention fully back to the road. The rest of the drive passes in silence, broken only by the sound of traffic and the soft click of the turn signal.
I watch the school gates come into view, the familiar shape of the building rising ahead of us.