I tried to shake off the lingering fear from the nightmare—the same one that had pursued me for months.
I never remembered the events of the dream, only the absolute certainty that something—or someone—was always coming for me.
Dark, bruised circles clung beneath my violet eyes, undeniable proof that sleep had once again abandoned me.
After hastily applying a thick layer of concealer, I bolted downstairs.
The rich, warm smell of coffee wafted toward me, a comforting promise, before I even entered the overly bright kitchen.
My mom and dad sat at the quartz island, steaming mugs in hand, focused solely on ignoring each other. The silence between them wasn't peaceful. It was deliberate.
Weaponized. Like a powder keg just waiting for the spark.
I briefly wondered if there was a world record for passive-aggressive quiet, because if there was, my parents were absolutely winning.
My mother glanced up from her glowing laptop screen.
"Is Lane up yet?" she asked, her voice clipped.
I shrugged, walking to the stainless-steel fridge. I grabbed a bottle of cold water, twisted off the cap, and drank the cool liquid down quickly.
"Can you go check?" she asked, her tone sharpening with impatience.
The request sounded less like a favor and more like an order she expected to be obeyed without question.
Somewhere between her tone and her posture, I was pretty sure "no" wasn't one of the acceptable answers.
I rolled my eyes. I shut the fridge door a little too hard and slammed my bottle onto the otherwise spotless countertop, causing a small spray of water to splash the surface.
I stomped halfway up the carpeted stairs. "Lane!" I waited a moment, then yelled again, putting all my morning irritation into the sound.
"Lane, wake up!"
A loud thump answered me.
"I'm up!" he yelled back, sounding groggy and annoyed.
I turned back, smiling a brief, triumphant smile. "He's up."
She took a slow, deep breath, her eyes narrowed in a glare. "If I wanted you to scream up the steps, I would have done it myself."
Then why didn't you? I wanted to snap back, but I bit my tongue so hard I tasted a metallic tang. I wasn't in the mood to start a fight.
It was Friday, which meant I just had to survive today, and then I would get to sleep in. That is, if my persistent nightmares would allow it.
"Did Ethan stay over last night?" Mom asked, directing the question to the air between us.
My dad finally looked up from his screen, running a hand through his perpetually neat black hair.
He adjusted his black, square-framed glasses that magnified his dark brown eyes slightly. "I believe so. Would you go check, Lizzy, please?"
I nodded, appreciating the simple politeness.
At least he said please. I took the remaining stairs two at a time.
I knocked softly on the guest bedroom door. Normally, when a friend stays over, they sleep in their friend's room.
However, Ethan was here so often that he now had his own room.
At this point, I was fairly certain my parents would've claimed him as a dependent on their taxes if it were legally possible.
Which was a problem—because wanting him had started to feel like crossing a boundary I didn't know how to uncross.
A line I was constantly stepping over just by being near him.
No one answered, so I slowly opened the door. "Ethan?" I whispered into the dim room.
Silence.
I flipped on the light switch. Only a shock of his curly blonde hair was visible, the rest of him hidden completely under the mossy-green comforter.
His familiar scent—a comforting mix of coffee, dark chocolate, and something uniquely him—hit me, making my mouth water and my heart involuntarily skip a beat.
I tiptoed over and shoved his shoulder firmly. "Ethan, get up!" I yelled, loud enough to make him jump straight up in the bed.
He sat bolt upright, glaring at me, which only caused a smile to creep across my face.
"You're going to be late for school. Wake up," I insisted.
My eyes snagged, unable to stop themselves from studying his bare chest. I quickly cataloged the sight before forcing myself to turn away.
I could feel his gaze on my back. My fingers wrapped tightly around the cool, brass doorknob. Twisting the knob, I paused, turning back to him, unable to resist one last look. Our eyes met in a sudden, intense connection.
I was thankful for the cool metal under my grip, a physical anchor stopping me from moving toward him.
Ethan looked away first, shattering the moment.
If he hadn't broken the gaze, I wasn't sure I would have stopped myself.
I swallowed hard, the tension tightening my throat, and headed back downstairs.
Lane, my older brother, was now sitting at the island. He still looked half-asleep, his chestnut hair sticking up wildly in every direction.
My mother fussed over him, trying to smooth his messy hair down. "Don't look so sour," I teased, grabbing a small bag of premade mini-muffins.
"Is that what you're wearing to school?" he growled, his eyes sweeping over me.
I braced myself. This was the part of the morning where Lane transformed into the self-appointed fashion police.
I glanced down at my outfit: an oversized grey sweater over ripped, light-wash jeans. "What's wrong with it?" I hissed back, immediately defensive.
Lane was always like this. If any skin showed—no matter how little—I was guaranteed to hear a lecture about it.
He glanced specifically at the tear in the knee of my jeans. "It's too revealing," he informed me, his tone possessive.
The way he said it made my skin crawl—not teasing, not joking.
I popped an entire muffin into my mouth and replied around the mouthful of sweet food.
"Yes, because you know the exposed knee is the sexiest, most distracting part of a woman." I let the sarcasm drip. I wiggled my knee slightly for emphasis.
Lane did not appreciate the demonstration.
Lane glared at me, his jaw clenching.
My father cleared his throat loudly. "She looks like a beautiful young lady. Now, both of you get to school before you're late."
My mother's mouth tightened. She didn't argue—but she didn't agree either.
I smiled brightly at my father, genuinely thankful for his intervention. Lane's glare instantly shifted to him.
"Thank you, Daddy," I said, kissing his cheek before grabbing my things and heading for the front door.
"You know she shouldn't dress like that." Lane hissed to my father.
"And last I knew I was the parent not you." My father shot back. His voice was low but laced with anger.
"He is right and we all know it." My mother whispered. "He won't like this."
The words settled heavily in the room, thick with meaning they refused to explain.
I glanced back at them confused. "Who won't like it?" I asked.
"It's nothing, go to school sweetheart." My dad insisted.
It never was nothing. It was always something they just never told me what it was.
I sighed knowing I should be used to their strange comments by now but I wasn't.
I could feel Lane watching me as I walked away—something he had started doing more often lately.
I wasn't sure why, but it made my neck prickle and set me instantly on edge.
It felt like I'd done something deeply wrong without even knowing what the offense was.
"Bye, love you guys!" I called out, grabbing my denim jacket and keys from the hall table.
My father replied back quickly, but as usual, my mother said nothing.
I shoved the last bit of the muffin into my mouth and headed out.
The house felt like it was holding its breath behind me.
Once at school, I walked down the long, off-white hallway. Black lockers covered the walls like silent, metallic sentinels, while grimy white, yellow, and maroon tiles lined the floor in a dizzying checkerboard pattern.
A churning sea of students passed me by, none paying me any attention, as was usual.
High school: where you were either aggressively perceived or completely invisible, and there was no in-between.
At my locker, I found Amanda already waiting for me.
She handed me a white styrofoam cup. "You can pay me back later," she informed me, as if I had specifically requested the morning coffee service.
I nodded gratefully and took a sip. The coffee was overly sweet and tasted intensely of caramel—the only way I found the bitter liquid drinkable.
How anyone drank black coffee, I would never understand.
It tasted like regret and poor life choices.
"Did Ethan stay over last night?" she asked, tucking a piece of curly blonde hair behind her ear.
"Yeah," I replied simply. Ethan was her older brother, and they shared a strong, recognizable resemblance: the same shock of curly blonde hair and the same stunning, deep ocean-blue eyes.
She was always worrying about him, though she would never come right out and say it. Their mother had died last year, and ever since, things had been fundamentally changed. Ethan was hardly ever home. Amanda had gone from being sweet and lighthearted to distant and cold.
Their father had started working as much as possible to cope. I rarely saw him, and I suspected Amanda didn't either.
I never pressed either Ethan or Amanda on the topic, knowing it would just upset them, but I didn't like Amanda being home alone most of the time.
However, unlike Ethan, she didn't like staying at my house, preferring the isolation of her own even if it meant being completely alone.
She looked lost in a sudden, quiet thought. Her normal stream of chatter stopped, and she stared off into the busy hallway.
The sea of people had momentarily thinned, leaving just Amanda and me near the lockers. I watched my best friend descend into herself, forgetting the outside world completely.
I felt completely lost, unsure how to comfort her. My soul ached for my friend, yet ever since her mother passed, she didn't even tolerate a simple hug from me. How do you help someone who won't let you in?
A storm of anger brewed in her ocean eyes.
The first bell shrieked, slicing through the tension.
"Dang it," Amanda muttered, and then we both took off into a hurried sprint toward homeroom.
We routinely spent too much time at our lockers, causing us to be late and miss homeroom.
We believed punctuality was optional if you walked fast enough afterward.
If I had known this was the last normal day of my life, I would have paid closer attention to the warning signs.