#zsakuva tara

[yoursinisforgiven]

BACKYARD BOY ──

pairing: elias x reader (non-listener)

cw: indirect mentions of domestic violence, child protective services, smoking, mentions/usage of drugs, kissing, mentions of blood, mentions of scars, mentions of s/h, reader is implied to be in a low income family, reader is lightly implied to be depressed, mental illness, mentions of death, thoughts of death, guilt,, jealousy, insecurity, (. . .) implies a time skip shorter than an 6 hours, reader is 10 at the beginning of the story; elias is 11, reader is afab and implied to identify as a girl.

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Thunk!

The sound makes you turn your head, eyes snapping to the white picket fence that borders the yard. It stands stubbornly in place, all prim and proper except for the loose slat near the middle, barely clinging to its post. The wood is aged just enough to betray wear—paint cracking, splinters blooming along the edges.

You stare at it for a moment longer, debating whether it’s worth investigating. It isn’t. Not when you’re in the middle of something important.

You return to your work.

A shallow dip in the dirt cradles your mixture—a murky, glistening concoction of rainwater, soil, and tiny pebbles that gleam wetly in the afternoon light. You mix it with a stick first, swirling until the mud turns thick and smooth, then abandon the tool in favor of your hands, letting the cool sludge seep between your fingers. There’s something satisfying about it, the way it coats your skin, sticky and dense. You grab a handful of grass and tear it from the ground, scattering the green strands over your creation. Your mother will yell at you later for ruining the lawn. You do it anyway.

Yesterday, the rain kept you inside. You had pressed your forehead to the cool glass of your bedroom window, watching water snake down in thin, twisting trails. The world outside had been blurred, unfamiliar, too new to feel like yours yet.

But that wasn’t new.

A different house. A different yard. A different white picket fence.

You liked the last house. No complaints. You liked the one before it, too. No complaints. You liked all the homes before that, because what was the point in not liking them? They weren’t yours to keep.

You never asked your mother why you moved so much. You knew. You were young, not stupid.

Thunk!

Again. Same sound, though a different place on the fence.

This time, it tugs at you differently. The first was easy to ignore, just another noise in a world full of them. But twice? That meant something.

You push yourself up with a sigh, wiping your mud-caked hands on the front of your shorts. The dirt stains darken the fabric, but you don’t care. You step forward, the ground warm beneath your bare feet, dry grass crunching softly as you move.

The closer you get, the clearer you see it. The loose slat trembles, rattling slightly before—

Thunk!

Something rolls through the gap, a blur of black and white against the sunbaked grass. You flinch, not expecting it, a jolt of surprise kicking up your spine. A soccer ball. It wobbles slightly as it settles a few feet away, scuffed and well-worn, its pentagonal patches dulled by dirt and use.

Your gaze lingers on it for a second too long, like it might do something else, like it might move on its own. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, waiting.

And then—movement.

Your breath catches as your eyes snap back to the fence.

A hand.

Small fingers curl around the wood, knuckles pressing against the surface before hesitating, flexing slightly, then pulling back. The gesture is cautious, uncertain. Testing. A silent question.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

For a moment, nothing happens. The world hums around you, unbothered. The wind stirs, rustling the trees, shifting the scent of sun-warmed earth and freshly cut grass. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, the sound sharp before it fades. A car door slams down the street. Life moves on.

But here, at the fence, time stretches—long and thin like pulled taffy.

Then, slowly, deliberately, the slat shifts again, pushed inward just enough to widen the gap.

A face appears.

A boy, about your age, peering through the opening with dark eyes that catch the light just right—sharp, observant, carrying something unreadable in their depths. His hair is dark too, curls in uneven strands falling messily over his forehead, as if he cut it himself or someone did it carelessly, without much thought. His skin is tanned, smudged with dirt along his cheeks and nose, the kind that comes from running through fields for too long, from climbing trees and skidding knees on pavement.

He doesn’t speak at first. Neither do you.

Your eyes meet through the narrow gap, and something lingers there—an unspoken moment, fragile and delicate, like the space between a breath in and a breath out.

Then, he grins.

It’s slow, lopsided, like he’s just decided something about you, something important that he isn’t going to share. The kind of grin that makes you feel like you’ve been let in on a secret you don’t understand yet.

His fingers tighten on the fence, his body shifting slightly as he tilts his head. Then, finally, he speaks.

“Could you kick it?”

His voice is rougher than you expect, like he either talks too much or not enough, like words scrape against his throat before they come out.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t understand the request, but because something about the moment feels delicate, like stepping onto the thin crust of a frozen puddle, unsure if it will hold.

Still, you shift your weight, feeling the dried mud crack against your hands as you clench them at your sides. You glance down at the soccer ball again, then back at the boy.

The boy doesn’t rush you. He just watches, waiting, like he knows you’ll do it eventually. There’s something expectant in his gaze, something patient but certain—like he’s already made up his mind about you, like this moment is already decided.

You shift your foot, nudging the ball with the tip of your shoe, feeling the dirt crumble beneath it. The ball is heavier than you expected, dense with the weight of dried mud clinging to its surface. You glance back up at the boy. His grin hasn’t faded.

You take a breath. Then—

You kick it.

Not hard. Not far. Just enough for it to roll a few feet closer to the fence, stopping right before the gap. The boy’s grin widens.

“Not bad.” He mutters under his breath.

He crouches, slipping his arm through the space between the slats. His fingers graze the ball, grip tightening as he pulls it back toward him, dragging it through the dirt. There’s a roughness to the way he moves, like he’s used to grabbing things fast, like he expects someone to take them from him if he isn’t quick enough.

He stands again, balancing the ball under one arm, his grip shifting like he’s about to say something. His lips part—

But before the words can come, the sound of your mother’s voice cuts through the thick summer air.

She calls your name, not sharp, not impatient—just a gentle summons, woven into the evening like the distant hum of cicadas.

You don’t spare the boy another glance.

Without hesitation, you turn and run, the grass cool beneath your feet, the scent of earth and rain lingering on your skin.

And just like that, the moment is over.

But not forgotten.

Without hesitation, you turn and run, the grass cool beneath your feet, the scent of earth and rain lingering on your skin. The house looms ahead, its windows glowing softly with the promise of dinner and the steady, predictable rhythm of home.

As you reach the door, you kick off your muddy shoes, careful, precise—anything to avoid another lecture. You’ve heard enough of them to know which ones are worth the trouble.

The moment your sock-clad feet touch the kitchen tile, the world shifts. The air inside is warmer, carrying the scent of something familiar—seasoned meat, steamed vegetables, a hint of something sweet underneath. Your mother stands at the counter, back turned, but as you step in, she glances over her shoulder.

Her eyes sweep over you, taking in the dirt smeared across your arms, the mud clinging to your shorts. Her lips press together, not quite a frown, not quite amused. Just tired.

“Go clean up, please,” she says, voice softer than you expect. “Dinner’s ready.”

You don’t argue.

Without a word, you turn, padding down the hall, the floor cool beneath your feet. The smell of dinner lingers behind you, the sound of your mother shifting dishes filling the space where words could be.

──

Three days have passed.

Now, you find yourself outside again, kneeling on the pavement, fingers smeared with bright orange dust as you drag a thick piece of chalk across the concrete. The color clings beneath your nails, staining the creases of your skin. You don’t mind. The mess is part of it, part of the way the picture comes alive.

The sun is cruel today. Not a warm embrace, but a heavy, pressing weight—a steady burn against your bare arms. It feels different than before. More punishing. Maybe you should’ve let your mother put sunscreen on you, but you had squirmed away, insisting you didn’t need it. Now, your skin prickles in protest, the scent of hot pavement filling your nose, mingling with the dusty, almost bitter smell of chalk.

You frown as your hand slips, dragging the orange streak too far. It doesn’t belong there. It ruins things.

A small frustration knots in your chest, and without thinking, you stick a finger in your mouth, wetting it before rubbing at the mistake. It smudges but doesn’t disappear. That only makes it worse.

Your eyes drift to the empty plastic water bottle sitting beside you.

A solution.

You wipe your hands against your shirt, smearing chalk dust into the fabric, then grab the bottle and push yourself to your feet. The pavement is hot beneath your knees as you stand, the soles of your jelly sandals sticking slightly with each step. The sound follows you as you move toward the backyard, plastic tapping against your palm with every swing of your arm.

The shift from pavement to grass is immediate—cooler, softer, but uneven. You pass the small hole you dug that after-rain afternoon, now dried at the edges, its presence a quiet reminder of time passing. The steps creak faintly as you climb onto the deck, the wooden boards warm but kinder than the pavement.

You reach for the door.

The knob is cold in your grasp. You twist.

Locked.

A sharp exhale pushes through your nose, irritation bubbling up. She really couldn’t have kept it unlocked for you? You knew she was gone—had left hours ago, dressed neatly, serious-faced, heading to court. That meant she’d be gone for a long time.

You glance around, as if the house might offer another way in, then round the corner, heading for the back door.

You try again.

The knob doesn’t budge.

Locked.

This time, frustration wells up so fast you don’t think—you stomp your foot. It isn’t a dramatic action, more of a sharp, instinctive movement, an outlet for the tension curling in your chest. But as soon as your foot lands, you freeze.

Something is wrong.

You glance down.

An ant, small and fragile, lies crushed beneath your sandal.

The sight sends something sharp and unbearable through you. The breath catches in your throat, your hands tightening at your sides. The wrongness of it—something that had been moving, alive, now still because of you.

It’s too much.

Your vision blurs. A sob rises in your throat, and this time, you don’t fight it. Maybe it’s just frustration, just the heat, just the fact that you can’t get inside your own house. Maybe it’s the ruined drawing, the emptiness left in your mother’s absence. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s none of it.

You sink down onto the steps, burying your face in your hands. Your shoulders shake. The plastic bottle slips from your grasp, rolling forgotten into the grass. The world feels too big and too small all at once, the heat pressing in, the quiet stretching.

Then—

A voice.

Light, familiar, laced with something like amusement.

“Are you crying or laughing? I can’t tell.”

It startles you enough that your breath catches, your fingers twitch against your face. You peek through them, vision blurred with unshed tears.

Standing at the edge of the yard, hands stuffed in his pockets, is the boy from the fence.

He stands there, head tilted, watching you with that same unreadable expression from before. The sunlight filters through the trees, dappling his tanned skin with shifting patterns of gold and shadow. His hair is even messier than last time, like he’s been running, the strands sticking to his forehead.

Your breath is still uneven, chest rising and falling in small, shuddering movements. You aren’t sure what to say.

The boy doesn’t wait for an answer. He steps forward, moves through the slanted peice of the fence, crossing the patchy grass, stopping just short of the wooden steps where you sit. He glances down at the forgotten water bottle lying in the dirt, then back at you.

“Are you stuck outside?” His tone is light, teasing, but not unkind.

You swallow hard, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes to wipe away any lingering tears before answering. “No.” It comes out stubborn, but the effect is ruined when you sniff.

He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

You look away.

It feels stupid now, all of it. Crying over a squashed ant, over a locked door, over—what? You aren’t sure. But the heat still presses against your skin, and the frustration still sits, heavy, in your stomach.

The boy seems to consider something before plopping down onto the steps beside you, arms resting lazily on his knees. He doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t even hesitate. Just takes up space like he belongs there.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The yard hums with late summer sounds—the distant chatter of birds, the occasional whine of a cicada, the rhythmic squeak of a neighbor’s clothesline turning in the breeze. The warmth lingers thick between you.

Then, without looking at you, the boy says, “I got locked out a lot, too. At my old house.”

You turn your head slightly, surprised.

He continues, absentmindedly picking at the hem of his shorts. “My dad always forgot I was outside. He’d lock the door and go do… whatever he did inside. I used to sit on the porch and wait.” A small shrug. “Sometimes for hours.”

You frown. “What’d you do?”

He grins, flashing a row of slightly crooked teeth. “Broke in.”

You blink.

“I got real good at it, too. Windows, back doors, even the garage once. He never caught on.” His tone carries a distinct lack of guilt, as if breaking into his own house was the most natural thing in the world.

Despite yourself, you feel the corners of your mouth twitch. “You’re lying.”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand over his chest. “Me? Lie? Never.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

The weight in your chest loosens, just a little.

The boy stretches his legs out, his bare feet brushing against the sun-warmed grass. Then, as if remembering something, he nudges your knee lightly with his own. “Hey.”

You glance at him.

He gestures toward the forgotten water bottle in the grass. “You gonna get that, or do I have to break into your house for you?”

This time, when you laugh, it’s real.

As you laugh, he follows along, the sound of it bright and easy, like it belongs here in the heat of the afternoon. It’s only then that you really take him in—the way the sun catches on the tan of his skin, casting warm highlights across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His dark curls look almost soft in the light, stray strands sticking to his forehead from sweat. And his eyes—deeper than just dark, glinting with something you can’t quite place. Mischief, maybe. Or curiosity.

The longer you look, the stranger the feeling that stirs in your chest. It’s something you’ve only seen in movies, something unspoken, unfamiliar. A nervous energy flutters somewhere deep in your stomach, and suddenly, looking at him feels like too much.

You tear your gaze away, settling instead on the discarded water bottle in the grass.

He notices.

“Were you thirsty?” he asks, following your line of sight.

You shake your head, already stepping off the porch, the soles of your jelly sandals slapping against the wood. Instead of taking the stairs properly, you jump the last few, skipping one just because you can. The impact sends a small shock up your legs, but you barely notice.

“I need it to fix my drawing,” you explain, bending to retrieve the bottle. The plastic crinkles under your grip, nearly empty but still holding onto the last few drops of water you need. The chalk dust on your fingers smears faint orange streaks across its surface.

The boy hums thoughtfully behind you. “You’re an artist, then?”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you straighten. “It’s just chalk.”

“Still counts,” he argues, and there’s something in his voice—something playful, but not teasing. Like he means it.

You glance back at him, and he’s watching you again, that same unreadable look in his dark eyes. Like he’s figuring you out. Like maybe, in some small way, he already has.

“What’s your name?” he asks, this time not looking directly at you.

You hesitate, fingers curling slightly around the plastic bottle in your grasp. Your mother’s voice echoes in the back of your mind—Stranger danger. Don’t talk to people you don’t know. But then, there’s another voice, just as firm, just as ingrained—Be polite. Make friends.

The contradiction has always confused you. Which lesson are you supposed to follow? Which one matters more?

In the end, you settle somewhere in between. You mumble your name, barely audible, and immediately regret it when he repeats it aloud, like testing how it feels in his mouth.

“Elias,” he says, thoughtful.

You furrow your brows. You’ve met a lot of people, heard plenty of names—even the same ones multiple times—but never that one. It sticks out, different.

You don’t tell him that. Instead, you just nod, eyes drifting back down to your water bottle.

The last few drops of water cling stubbornly to the bottom, too little to fix the mistake in your chalk drawing. You tip it slightly, as if that might make the water stretch further, but it’s useless.

Before you can dwell on it, Elias rocks back on his heels. “My uncle just taught me how to use the hose in our backyard,” he says, like it’s nothing, but there’s pride laced into the words.

You glance at him, unimpressed. “So?”

“So…” His grin sharpens, arms crossing over his chest. “That means I have way more water than whatever’s left in that bottle.”

It takes you a second to catch on. When you do, you blink at him. “Are you saying you’ll let me use it?”

“I’m saying,” Elias drawls, head tilting, “that if you’re nice to me, maybe I’ll let you use it.”

You scoff, tossing the bottle onto the grass with a faint plastic crinkle. “I am nice to you.”

“Debatable,” he shoots back, grin never wavering.

Still, you’re already moving, feet carrying you toward the broken fence slat that separates your yards. You slow when you reach it, gaze flicking toward your house, half-expecting your mother to materialize in the doorway and call you back inside. But the door remains closed. She’s still gone.

The sun presses heavy against your back, heat simmering off the pavement. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower hums to life, the scent of freshly cut grass carried on the breeze.

And then, there’s Elias. Watching. Waiting. His grin was expectant.

The idea of cold water from a garden hose sounds like heaven.

You tilt your chin slightly. “Well? Are you gonna help me or not?”

His grin widens. “Come on,” he says, ducking through the loose slat in the fence before you can change your mind.

You hesitate for only a second before following.

. . .

Elias’s backyard isn’t too different from yours—patches of overgrown grass, a wooden deck that creaks under the heat, a back door with chipped paint along the edges. But it feels different. Not just because it’s unfamiliar, but because it’s his.

He moves like he belongs here, and maybe that’s what makes the difference. You aren’t sure.

The hose is coiled near the base of the deck, draped over a metal holder that’s rusted at the edges. Elias crouches to twist the spigot, and a second later, the hose sputters to life, jerking slightly before a steady stream of water trickles from the nozzle.

He stands, tossing you a glance over his shoulder. “You know how to use it, right?”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer. “I’m not a baby.”

Elias hums like he isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he presses the hose into your hands, fingers brushing against yours for only a second before he steps back, wiping his palms against the hem of his shirt.

You grip the hose, adjusting your hold, and when you squeeze the nozzle, a cool stream of water sprays forward. The relief is instant, the air filling with the scent of damp earth as droplets splatter against the grass.

It should’ve ended there. You should’ve turned, thanked him, gone back to your yard to fix your drawing. That was the plan.

But the moment Elias looks at you—eyebrows raised, a knowing smirk playing at his lips—your grip tightens just slightly.

The water shifts.

A single spray of cold mist catches the edge of his shirt.

Elias freezes.

You both stare at each other.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he lifts his gaze. His smirk widens.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “That’s how it is, huh?”

Your stomach drops.

He lunges.

You yelp, stumbling back as Elias reaches for the hose, laughter spilling from his lips. You twist, dodging, water spraying in wild arcs as you struggle to keep control of the nozzle.

“You started it!” you cry, even though technically, you did.

“I offered you water, not a fight!” he counters, though he’s laughing too, arms outstretched as he tries to grab the hose from you.

Your heart pounds, a different kind of warmth blooming beneath your ribs. You’re not sure when the last time you laughed this hard was, but right now, in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

Right now, nothing else matters except the sun, the water, and Elias, grinning as he chases you across the yard.

Elias nearly snatches the hose from your hands, but you twist your body at the last second, giggling as the water sprays wildly in the air. Droplets catch the sunlight, sparkling before falling onto the grass, darkening the patches beneath your feet.

“You’re cheating!” Elias shouts, lunging forward again.

“You never said there were rules!” you shoot back, voice high with laughter.

Your sandals slip slightly against the damp grass, and Elias seizes the moment. His fingers close around your wrist, not too tight, just enough for him to wrestle the hose from your grasp. You let out a squeaky no! but it’s too late. The power balance has shifted.

Elias’s grin is victorious.

“You messed up,” he declares, lifting the hose.

“No, Elias—wait!”

He squeezes the nozzle.

Cold water explodes from the hose, spraying across your chest and arms. A sharp yelp escapes you, body jolting at the icy sting, the heat of the afternoon doing nothing to lessen the shock.

Elias cackles.

It’s not fair.

You lunge forward without thinking, hands wrapping around the hose as you both fight for control. The water whips unpredictably, drenching the both of you in the process, but neither of you care. You’re laughing too hard.

Your soaked shirt clings to your skin, the fabric dripping, and your jelly sandals squish beneath your feet. Elias isn’t any better off—his curls cling to his forehead, his tan skin glistening with beads of water, his once-dry clothes completely ruined.

And yet, he doesn’t stop.

And neither do you.

For a moment, the world shrinks. There’s no heat, no courtrooms, no locked doors keeping you out. Just the sun, the laughter, the way your stomach aches from it all. Just the sound of your own voice, tangled with his, two kids forgetting everything else.

. . .

“I got this one from hitting my knee against the grill,” Elias says, rolling up his pant leg to reveal a small, faded scar just below his kneecap. “Maybe a three-point-five.”  

You lean in, squinting at the mark. It’s not that big, but something about it makes your chest feel a little tight. You reach out before thinking, fingers skimming over the rough patch of skin. It’s cooler than the rest of his leg, the texture different, almost like the memory of the scrape is still clinging to him even though it’s long healed. The feeling reminds you of when you stepped on that ant earlier—tiny, insignificant, but it made your stomach twist all the same.  

Elias watches you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then, to your surprise, he looks almost... embarrassed? He shifts, tugging his pant leg back down. “Your turn,” he mutters, glancing away.  

You blink, caught off guard by how fast the moment passes. You hesitate, then turn your palm upward, showing him your hand.  

Elias squints at it. “There’s nothing there,” he says, grabbing your wrist and tilting your hand, searching for something. His fingers press against your skin, warm and a little rough from climbing trees and gripping handlebars too tightly. “A paper cut?” He snorts. “Seriously?”  

“Pain is pain,” you mumble, pulling your wrist back and turning your hand over, staring at it. “Nine-point-five for pain.”  

Elias lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “Dramatic.” But he’s smiling now, wide and boyish, like he finds you ridiculous but also kind of amusing.  

He lifts his arm next, rolling back his sleeve to show you a bigger scar on his forearm. The skin there looks different, stretched and uneven, like whatever caused it wasn’t just a small scrape. “Kaden pushed me down the boardwalk,” he says. “Six-point-two.”  

You frown. “Kaden?”  

“One of my friends,” Elias shrugs. He pauses, like he’s debating something, then adds, “Maybe I’ll have you guys meet. He has a sister too.”  

You nod, but your eyes linger on the scar a little longer. It’s strange how something so small—a mark, a memory—can hold so much. You wonder if you’ll ever have scars like his, ones with real stories behind them.  

The grass is cool against your legs as you shift, plucking at it absentmindedly. You start twisting a few blades together, making little rings out of them. Elias watches for a second before grabbing his own handful, his fingers fumbling a bit as he tries to copy you. The sky is getting dimmer, the air filled with the sound of crickets and the distant laughter of kids still playing.  

“Bet I can make more than you,” Elias says suddenly, the challenge clear in his voice.  

You smirk, tying another grass ring. “I want a head start.”  

And just like that, the weight of the moment fades, replaced by something lighter, something that feels a little bit like forever.

──

The grocery store is cold—oddly cold, the kind that feels unfair, like a trick. It sneaks in under your clothes, crawls along your arms and your back, makes your nose feel tingly and raw. It’s the kind of cold you forget to brace yourself for until it’s already too late. Every store is like this. It’s one of the only things that stays the same, no matter what zip code is on the mail or what your new street smells like when it rains. The hum of fluorescent lights. The sticky cart handles. The cold. Like a secret handshake between every store across the world, saying: yes, it’s different here, but also, no, it’s not.

You hold the cart where the metal bends into a soft curve, a spot your small fingers fit into perfectly. It’s a comfort—not because it feels good, but because it feels familiar. The metal is tacky from someone else’s hands, a little warm in a way that makes your skin crawl, and you wonder what kind of person touched it last. You imagine maybe it was a dad with tattoos. Or a teenager with headphones. Or a mom with red lipstick and no kids at all. You imagine all of them, each leaving behind a fingerprint like a ghost. That thought stays with you longer than it should.

The cart squeaks every few feet, dragging along with only the sound of its resistance and your mother’s breath—short, shallow, tired. The wheels stutter over a crack in the floor and then catch again, steady. The basket holds only a few things: a loaf of off-brand white bread, its plastic slightly torn near the twist tie; a jug of milk with one side already starting to fog up; a carton of eggs you keep staring at, wondering if they’ll make it all the way home this time. Just enough to get by. Just enough to last the week.

Your mother has a list, but it’s not on a real list paper. It’s scribbled across the back of a coloring book page—one of yours, the one you had been most excited to finish. The princess’s dress swirls across the back, soft pink crayon strokes interrupted by the sharp black ink of your mother’s slanted cursive. You stare at the yellow crown, only half-colored, the wax lines showing where your hand had gone too fast. You wonder what she would have looked like finished. You wonder what she would have ruled over.

You remember that page. You remember the chair you sat in, how the table wobbled because of one short leg, how the light came in at just the wrong angle so you had to squint to stay in the lines. You remember not finishing it. Now you never will.

Your mother mutters something, then digs into her bag. You know the sound of her purse—it’s deep and cluttered and full of receipts and gum wrappers and bobby pins bent out of shape. You hear them all rustling, the click of her nails against a lip balm tube, the crinkle of something plastic.

“Go pick out two—”

Her voice cuts like a snapped twig.

Her phone buzzes.

That sound—the flat, angry buzz—feels like a mosquito in your ear. High-pitched. Always too loud.

She flinches. She always does, but small. A blink-too-long sort of flinch. A little lift of her shoulders like she’s about to duck.

“God, how many times will they fucking call?”

She whispers it, but it still feels loud. Not in volume—in weight. It drops into the space between the carts and the shelves like a pebble in water, the ripples invisible but wide-reaching.

You don’t ask who it is. You already know.

You remember the woman. Not the man on the other end of the line—he’s a voice, not a shape—but the woman in the red heels. Sometimes black with red bottoms, but always heels. You’d once asked her why her shoes looked angry underneath, but she’d just laughed in a way that didn’t sound very happy. You watched the way her shoes clicked against the tile. You wondered if she knew how loud she was.

She carried papers everywhere. Notebooks, clipboards, manila folders with your names scribbled in the corners. She smelled like hotel soap and her pen always clicked too much. You helped her once—twice—maybe more. You’d chased after a paper that got caught in the wind near your porch. You gave it back, proud, expecting her to say thank you. She hadn’t. She’d just smiled like she was busy thinking of something else.

She asked you questions that didn’t sound like questions.

“Do you feel safe?”

“Does Mom ever leave you alone?”

“What do you remember?”

She said your name softly. Like it was something cracked. Like it needed to be handled with gloves.

Her voice was sweet—but not real sweet. The kind of sweet that tastes like medicine.

You understood more than she thought.

You knew the name she didn’t say.

You saw him in your dreams.

The heavy hand.

The broken glass.

The sound the wall made.

You stopped telling your mom after the first time she cried in the car and said it wasn’t your fault.

But you wondered, sometimes, if she still felt the bruise of memory like you did.

Like a shadow that doesn’t go away just because the sun does.

She turns away now, phone pressed to her ear, shielding her face as if the act could make her words disappear. But they don’t. You still hear parts of them.

“Lose custody.”

“You have to get stable.”

“I don’t want to have to take that child away from you.”

“She’s only 10, she's gone through enough.”

You let go of the cart. Your fingers drift down to the hem of your shirt, tugging it quietly, twisting it into knots. You do this sometimes. You don’t know why. It doesn’t feel good, but it gives your hands something to do.

She looks at you, the kind of look that’s all apology and none of the fixing. Her mouth lifts at the corners—a sorry smile. The worst kind.

You don’t forgive her.

Not for the page.

Not for the call.

Not for the fear she breathes into every quiet moment.

But you understand.

Maybe that’s worse.

You turn.

You walk.

The tile is slippery under your sneakers. You nearly trip on a speck of squashed grape, but catch yourself before anyone sees. Your feet carry you toward the cereal aisle. It’s always the most colorful aisle—like a carnival frozen into boxes. The shelves stand tall and loud, bright blues and reds and purples all shouting over each other.

You stand there for a moment, surrounded by cartoons and tigers and rabbits and leprechauns. All smiling. All inviting you to have fun.

You reach up for a box of something sugary—not your favorite, but the colors are nicer. The box is cool to the touch. You hug it to your chest like it’s a pillow and breathe in the scent of cardboard, dust, and fake strawberries.

Behind you, the store hums with life. A cart wheel squeaks. A kid cries two aisles over. A song plays from the ceiling—something old, something that feels like it doesn’t belong here.

You don’t belong here either.

But for now, you pretend.

The cereal in your arms is light.

The air is cold.

And nothing has fallen apart.

Not yet.

──

“Team UmiZoomi!”

The theme song echoes from your little TV screen, tinny through old speakers as you shovel another spoonful of cereal into your mouth. The TV chirps loud enough to rattle the spoon resting in your cereal bowl. The animation blurs at the edges as your eyelids sag with the weight of boredom and heat. You lift your spoon anyway, the metal warmed from the kitchen air, and take another bite—soggy loops that taste more like the color of the box than any real fruit.

You’re in your room—door cracked open, bowl in your lap, feet kicking back and forth in pajama pants. The pattern—smudged stars and smiling moons—has started to fade, especially around the knees. Your tank top sticks to your back, white and already a little damp at the spine. You try not to move too much. Moving makes it worse. Summer is like being slowly cooked in invisible soup. Still, summer means no school, and no school means no weird meetings with the school counselor who always tries too hard to smile, who always ends her questions with: "But how do you really feel?" as if you're a maze she’s trying to solve.

And no math. You hate math. Numbers swim like fish on your paper, darting around and slipping through the pencil lines. You’re not good at chasing them.

Just as you’re finishing the milk at the bottom of the bowl—warm now, a little gray—the doorbell rings. You don’t react at first. It rings like that sometimes when your neighbor's kids lean against the doorframe too hard, or when delivery people accidentally hit the button with their elbow. But then— A voice.

A woman’s voice. Not your mom’s. Not anyone you’ve heard through the wall or over the phone.

Something about it—it makes your heart go weird. Not scared, just… alert. Like when you see the shadow of a bug before the bug. Like when you’re about to trip but you haven’t yet. You freeze, spoon still in your hand. Milk drips off the edge and hits your knee with a warm plop.

Then you hear your name. Your mom’s voice, casual but tight. Like she’s pretending not to care that the kitchen still smells like burnt toast and yesterday’s arguments.

“Come down here!”

You set the bowl down quickly, cereal sloshing up the sides. You wipe your hands on your pants even though they’re already stained with who-knows-what. Your bare feet slap softly against the steps as you run toward the stairs, the cold part of the wood already warm from the sunlight that spills in through the curtain-less window. But halfway down, you stop.

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat, light and sharp.

Because standing in the doorway, framed by sunlight and summer dust, is him. Elias.

He looks smaller than you remember, or maybe it’s just that the space around him has grown. His black hair curls a little where the heat has gotten to it, the tips of it sticking to his forehead like they’re too shy to let go. His hands are in his pockets—shorts with a loose thread at the hem—and he’s looking at the floor like it might say something interesting if he stares long enough.

His hair is fluffy and dark, not quite curly, but kind of soft-looking and puffy in a way that makes you think of a dandelion right before you blow the seeds away. He’s wearing a shirt with little stars all over it—yellow and white ones that look like they’re dancing around the fabric. He fidgets on the doormat, scuffing his sneaker against it, like he doesn’t want to look too long at anything.

Next to him is a woman. His mom, maybe. She looks like him, but warmer. Her eyes are soft in that way that feels like cushions, and her smile is easy. She holds a plate in both hands, carefully balanced, covered with cling wrap that clings more to itself than the cookies beneath it. The cookies are perfect-looking—golden at the edges, chocolate chips sitting politely on top like decorations.

Her hair is a lighter brown, shoulder-length, swaying a little as she laughs at something your mom says. She’s wearing earrings that jingle softly when she moves, like wind chimes trapped in her ears.

She looks… nice. But more than nice. Her earrings sparkle even in the hallway shadows, and her purse is the kind with gold zippers that actually shine, not the kind that flakes off when you scratch it. She holds a plate of cookies, neatly stacked and wrapped in cling wrap that doesn’t have a single wrinkle. Even her nails are painted, all the same color, no chips. You don’t know what brand her clothes are, but something about the way her dress fits and how her sandals make that gentle clicking sound on the tile says money.

You don’t know what to do with your arms, so you hold onto the banister like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Elias wasn’t looking at you. Not yet. He was kind of swaying back and forth, his hands shoved in his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His head was tilted down a little, but you could tell by the way he kept glancing up that he knew you were there.

“Hi,” he said finally, stretching the word just a bit like he was trying to sound cool, or maybe like he didn’t care if you answered—even though you knew he did.

His voice made your stomach feel buzzy, like drinking soda too fast.

“My son tells me you two have been playing together a lot,” his mom said, smiling up at your mother like moms do when they want to seem nice and not too nosy.

That’s when Elias flushes.

Not like, full red, but you can see it creep into his ears and the bridge of his nose. He makes this sound—kind of like a cough, but not really—and rolls his eyes, muttering, “Mom…”

 “We figured we’d stop by. It’s been a little chaotic, moving in. Thought we should do something neighborly.”

Elias kicked at something invisible on the welcome mat. “I told her you’re kinda weird,” he said, glancing up at you with a smirk that barely reached his eyes. “But not bad weird.”

You blinked at him, your mouth twitching. He looked smug, like he'd just gotten away with something.

The cling wrap crinkled softly as his mom lifted the plate.

“These have chocolate chips,” she said. “Still warm. No nuts. Just in case.”

“Mom,” Elias muttered, ducking his head and elbowing her gently. His ears were red. But he was still grinning, all crooked teeth and mischief.

“She can have one,” he added quickly, straightening a little. “If she says please.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped down one more stair. “Maybe I don’t want one.”

“Then I’ll have yours,” he said, already leaning toward the plate, his hands hovering too close to the cookies.

His mom swatted his hand back, “Be nice.” She mutters in the ever motherly tone.

You took the last few stairs slowly, arms crossed, trying to hide the way your shirt strap kept falling off your shoulder.

You peeked at the cookies.

Then at Elias.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted one after all.

. . .

The two-minute walk to Elias’s house felt like forever.

Not pretend-forever like when you’re bored in class, but actual forever, like you were walking across the whole planet made of melting sidewalk and dragon-breath air. The sun kept sticking to your back like a sweaty sticker, and even your knees felt hot inside your skirt. You squinted up at the sky—it looked like someone had erased all the clouds and turned the blue up too high.

You held the plate of cookies with both hands, careful like it was treasure. The cookies had started sticking together from the heat, the chocolate chips all gooey and shiny like bug eyes. You and Elias had made a deal not to eat all of them—“Just one each,” you’d said, with your pinkies crossed behind your backs like secret agents. But now there were some crumbs missing and a bite out of one cookie, and maybe a whole cookie gone too, but you didn’t remember eating it, so maybe it didn’t count.

Your skirt kept brushing your knees when you walked—it was purple and frilly and had tiny fake gems near the waistband that you thought were so fancy. You usually wore shorts or old leggings, but today felt… different. You’d even worn your jelly sandals, the glitter ones that made your feet feel sticky and squeaky, but looked like something a princess would wear on a playground.

You hoped Elias noticed. Maybe. You didn’t want him to say anything because that’d be embarrassing, but also, you kinda hoped he liked purple. What if he liked pink better? Or green? What if his favorite color was orange like the inside of those fruit slice gummies?

You never dressed this nice. You didn’t even know why you did today.

Maybe 'cause Elias was nice. And kinda funny. And when he smiled, he looked like the main boy in those movies your mom said you weren’t old enough to watch.

You were still thinking about it when—bam—you were at his front porch. You hadn’t even noticed the walk ending.

Elias grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, then frowned. “Huh. It’s locked.”

He rattled it again, like it might change its mind.

“I swear we left it open,” he muttered, and then he turned toward you, brushing his hair back with the side of his hand. His hair was always kind of floofy—not curly exactly, but all wavy and messy like the clouds that showed up before a storm. “Do you have one of those… girly pins or whatever?”

You blinked. “A bobby pin?”

“Yeah, that.” He grinned, kind of lopsided, like he knew it sounded dumb but didn’t really care. “Think you could, like, pick the lock?”

“I don’t know how to do that!”

“I thought all girls did spy stuff,” he said, nudging you with his elbow just a little.

You opened your mouth to say something back—but then the door swung open with a click, and you both jumped like you’d been caught stealing candy, heart hiccuping in your chest, and almost dropped the plate. Elias reached out fast, steadying it with his hands underneath yours. His fingers touched yours for a split second—just barely—and you felt something fizzy in your stomach, like soda bubbles climbing too fast.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You’d blame it on the heat. Definitely the heat.

Suddenly your gaze falls on the man at the door.

He was tall, with a strong nose and shiny shoes, and he wore one of those button-up shirts that had those little white creases ironed in, like they’d never been wrinkled a day in their life. He even smelled clean, like expensive soap and air conditioning. His watch caught the sunlight for a second, throwing little stars on the ground.

Behind him, in the wide hallway, was a woman with lipstick red as cherries and one of those thin, fancy cigarettes that looked like something out of an old movie. Her sunglasses sat high on her head, and her hair was pinned back just right, not a single curl out of place. She didn’t say anything—just waved at you with her fingers, slow and soft, and took a drag from her cigarette like she was thinking about something far away.

You swallow the spit pooled in your mouth as you try not to take note of the gun sat on the counter, an odd logo like symbol on it.

The man looked from Elias to you and smiled.

“I didn’t know you had a little girlfriend, Elias.”

You felt your brain stutter.

Elias made this weird half-choke sound. “She’s not my girlfriend, Uncle James,” he muttered fast, eyes darting anywhere but you. His cheeks were turning pink—not red like embarrassment on TV, but the soft kind, like strawberry milk when you mix it too long. 

James chuckled under his breath and opened the door wider, stepping aside with a little bow like he was a waiter or a prince. “Well, come in then, Not-Girlfriend.”

You stepped inside real slow, holding onto the cookie plate with both hands like it was a treasure. The air inside the house was cold, but not grocery-store cold. It was rich cold, the kind that came from big, shiny air vents and machines that were probably whispering instead of buzzing. It smelled like lemons and cinnamon, and something you couldn’t name—maybe expensive hand lotion or a candle that cost more than your mom spent on a week of groceries.

Your sandals made a sticky chik-chik noise on the shiny floor, and you tried to walk softer. The hallway was painted this creamy color like melted ice cream, and the floor didn’t creak at all. It was all smooth and perfect and kind of scary, like if you dropped something, a bell would ring and someone would swoop in to clean it up in one second.

Then, there she was—leaning against the wall by the kitchen doorway, one hand on her hip and the other holding a cigarette like it was part of her outfit. Her red lipstick was so red it almost glowed, and her hair was all done up like she’d gone somewhere fancy that day, even though she probably hadn’t. Her nails matched her lips—red, shiny, sharp-looking. And she smiled when she saw you, the kind of smile where you couldn’t tell if she liked you or was just pretending real good.

She didn’t wave, but she did say, “So this is the little heartbreaker?”

You didn’t know if she was talking to you or Elias, but your brain went fizzy anyway.

Elias walked over and gave her this quick hug—tight and fast, like he was trying to get it over with. She leaned down just enough to whisper something you barely heard.

“Isn’t she pretty.”

You blinked.

You didn’t know if she meant it or was just saying it to be nice. You didn’t even know if Elias heard her. But he must’ve, because his hand tightened just slightly on the edge of the cookie plate, and his ears went the same pink as his cheeks. He didn’t say anything, though. Just glanced at you for a half-second and looked away again, like your face was too bright to stare at for long.

The cigarette woman gave you this little smirk and tapped her nail on the wall like she was thinking about something funny but didn’t feel like sharing it. Then she blew out smoke that smelled like something sweet but also sharp, like bubblegum and fire.

“Kitchen’s that way,” she said, nodding, but Elias was already grabbing your sleeve.

“C’mon,” he said, suddenly all fast and twitchy like he had an idea in his brain that was buzzing. “Let’s go upstairs before she starts asking questions.”

You barely had time to nod before he tugged your arm—gently, but with purpose—and started pulling you through the house. His hand was warm, and it kind of made your skin feel like soda fizz.

You passed big framed pictures on the walls—photos of Elias as a baby with hair even fluffier than now, and one of him dressed like a magician, cape and everything, standing next to a birthday cake with six candles on it. You wanted to ask about it but didn’t, because the stairs were already in front of you.

They were big and curved, like in those houses from movies, and the carpet runner on them was dark blue with gold trim. You wondered if rich stairs ever got squeaky. These didn’t.

Elias glanced back at you once when you hesitated, still holding the plate. “You coming or what?”

You nodded and followed, trying not to step too loud. At the top, he turned quick and led you down a hall where the walls had actual paintings—not posters, paintings. One of a bird. One of a mountain. One of just a swirl of color that looked like maybe it cost a thousand dollars but also maybe a kindergartener could’ve made it. You didn’t know how art worked.

He finally pushed open a door and you stepped inside his room.

It was big. Bigger than yours for sure. The carpet was soft and dark gray, and it felt like stepping on clouds. There was a giant window with curtains that looked like they belonged in a hotel. His bed had one of those tall wooden headboards, and a comforter with constellations all over it—little stars stitched in silver thread. A telescope sat in the corner by a desk with neat stacks of books, and a game console blinked quietly under a big TV.

You stood there, not sure if you were allowed to sit.

Elias let go of your sleeve finally and turned to look at you with that half-smile he got when he was trying not to be too proud but still kinda was.

“Isn’t it amazing?”

You nodded slow. “You have your own telescope?”

“Duh,” he said, then scratched behind his ear and added quieter, “I could show you how to use it. If you want.”

You felt your heart thump once. Not scary thump. Just a warm, soft one. Like maybe summer wasn’t so bad after all.

You blinked, taking in the room, your eyes landing on little things you hadn’t noticed at first. The dresser in the corner was painted a shiny white, the knobs all gold, like something out of a dream, and there was a stuffed bunny on the bed, its ear a little bent from too many hugs. The bed was big, bigger than any bed you’d ever had—big enough to roll around on it and still not touch the edges.

Elias was already sitting down on the floor, legs crossed, and looking up at you like he was waiting for you to decide. He pointed to the window, the light outside still too bright to make out anything in the sky, and said, “You could, like, sit in the chair if you want.”

You nodded but didn’t move right away. The chair by the window had cushions that looked like clouds. Big fluffy ones. And the window itself was huge, like one of those windows in the stories where people looked out for hours and tried to count all the stars. But here, during the day, it was just sunlight spilling in, catching on little dust motes floating around. The light was soft, like it was trying to be quiet.

You slowly made your way over to the chair, feeling the soft carpet under your toes. It didn’t even feel real—more like stepping onto a pillow. You had to keep yourself from giggling because it felt so nice. The chair was big and puffy, like it was waiting for you to just fall into it. You sank into it slowly, letting the fabric stretch and crinkle under you.

Elias just stared at you for a second, his face serious, like he was trying to figure something out. Then, he picked up the telescope that was leaning against the wall and started fiddling with it, adjusting the big silver lens until it pointed in your direction.

“I could show you,” he said again, quieter now. His voice felt soft, like it was part of the air. “I mean, how to look through the telescope, if you want. But... it’s not dark yet.”

You wondered if it was okay to say yes. It wasn’t nighttime, so it was like saying you wanted to go to bed even when it wasn’t bedtime yet. But it wasn’t like it really mattered, right? You could try to use it anyway. So you nodded, and Elias’s face brightened up, just a little.

“Okay, cool,” he said, and you could hear a tiny bit of excitement underneath his usual quiet voice. He pulled the telescope over to the window, the metal legs of it clicking against the floor in a steady rhythm, like it was playing its own little tune.

He set it up under the window and adjusted the angle, and you could hear him mumbling numbers to himself. “Okay, like... this should work.” His voice was almost like he was trying to solve a puzzle, all serious and quiet.

You watched, not quite understanding what he was doing, but the way his hands moved—like he was fixing something delicate, like it mattered—made you feel like this was important.

Once it was ready, he waved you over, his eyes bright. “You can try first,” he said, motioning to the telescope. “But you gotta look through it like this.” He bent down and showed you how to look through the little circular lens, his cheek just barely brushing the edge of the metal, his hair falling into his eyes.

It was funny, because it was just the two of you in this room, and yet, there was something about the quiet that made everything feel a little... bigger. Like the whole world was right there in front of you, just waiting to be noticed. You shifted forward in the chair, moving closer to the telescope and pressing one eye up against it like Elias had done.

At first, everything was blurry. You blinked and rubbed your eye and tried again, but the world still didn’t make sense. It was like you were seeing everything from behind a misty glass, a little bit out of reach. You adjusted the lens the way Elias had, twisting it slowly until the shapes started to clear up. Finally, you saw something.

It was a tree—an old, lumpy tree in the backyard. You could see its branches stretching far across the yard, and for a second, you felt like you were looking at a different version of the world. A bigger version. Like the whole tree was part of a bigger, secret world that only a telescope could show you. The leaves were swaying in a wind you couldn’t feel, and there were little spots of light dappling across the ground from the sun. You wondered if anyone had ever looked at that tree the way you were looking at it.

It was kind of magical, even though it didn’t feel like magic. More like something real that you didn’t know was there until now.

Elias was standing a little behind you, just watching, and you didn’t want to turn away from the tree, but you did. You looked at him, his eyes still soft and quiet, waiting for you to say something. He was standing there, looking so serious like he always did, except now his lips were curling up into a smile, just a little bit.

“It’s... cool, right?” he asked, his voice a little quieter, like he was asking about more than just the tree.

You nodded, feeling the soft weight of your thoughts. “Yeah. It’s really cool.”

There was something about that moment. The way the sunlight poured in through the window, the way Elias was standing there waiting for you to get it, like he was showing you something big, something important. And maybe you didn’t understand it fully—maybe you never would—but there was something about it that made you feel like you’d just found a new part of the world.

You looked back at the tree through the telescope, and for a second, everything felt like it was in its place. Even if it was just for a moment.

The sun outside, the warm carpet under your feet, Elias in his star shirt, standing beside you... everything felt still and quiet. Almost like nothing could ever change.

It was funny how sometimes the smallest things made you feel like you understood everything and nothing at once. And you didn’t need to say anything out loud to know it, either.

You blinked, still watching the tree through the telescope, trying to see everything it had to offer. The leaves swayed gently, the little flecks of sunlight dancing across the ground, making the world feel just a little too big, like it was full of things you couldn’t quite touch. It was magical, but in that quiet, unspoken way, like the kind of magic you see when no one else is around to notice.

Elias, still standing behind you, shuffled a little on his feet, and you could feel the tension in the air shift. It was like he was thinking about something, and maybe, just maybe, he was wondering if he should ask. You caught him glancing at you from the corner of your eye, his gaze a little more serious than usual, though it softened when his lips parted to speak.

“You, uh... you don’t have anyone else there, right?” he asked, his voice a little unsure, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to ask. “Just you and your mom?”

His words hung in the air, soft, almost delicate, like they might break if you didn’t catch them. You hesitated for a second, feeling a little caught off guard. It wasn’t like you didn’t know what he meant. You and your mom had always been alone, mostly. There were other people around—your mom’s friends sometimes—but no one who ever stuck around for too long. And with your dad... well, he wasn’t around much, and when he was, things were never quite right.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, your fingers still gripping the edge of the telescope, your voice quiet like the room had somehow become too big for words. “It’s just us.”

"My dad..." you started, but then the words stopped, just like that, stuck in your throat like a knot. You felt that tight, uncomfortable feeling creep up your chest, the kind you didn’t know how to explain. You weren’t even sure why you started to say it, but it was like the word “dad” had slipped out before you could catch it.

You didn’t finish your sentence. You just let it hang there in the air, unfinished, because saying it out loud felt... wrong somehow. 

Elias nodded, his hair flopping into his eyes as he tilted his head. He didn’t look at you directly, but you could see the soft flush creeping up his cheeks again, the same pink shade as before, like he was embarrassed, but trying not to show it. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders a little hunched, like he was waiting for something but not sure if he should say it.

“You can, uh, come over to my room whenever you want,” Elias blurted out suddenly, his voice rushing over the words, as if he had been thinking about it for a while and just couldn’t hold it back anymore. His words were a little quick, like they’d been ready to burst free. His gaze flicked to the ground for a moment, his feet shuffling, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his face was slowly turning that same soft pink again, like he wasn’t used to saying things like that.

You stared at him for a moment, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air between you. It wasn’t a huge thing, not really. But it felt important, like he was offering you something that didn’t have any strings attached—something just for you and him, in this big, quiet room.

“Thanks,” you said, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips before you could stop it. You didn’t know why you smiled, but it felt right, like you didn’t need to explain it.

Elias shifted his weight, a nervous kind of energy pulsing through him as he avoided your gaze, his eyes skimming over the room instead. He seemed to be waiting for something more, maybe a response or a sign that you felt the same way, but you just stayed quiet, watching him in the soft, golden light of the room. It felt like the world had slowed down just a little bit, like the only thing that mattered in that moment was you, him, and the quiet comfort of the room.

You shifted in the chair, a little unsure of what to do next, but the moment felt full of something, like the air was thick with unspoken things that didn’t need to be said out loud.

Elias looked at you again, his lips curling up into a shy smile, and there was something in the way he smiled that made you feel like you understood him a little more—like he wasn’t just the boy with the fluffy hair and the star shirt, but someone who was learning how to let people in.

The silence stretched on a little longer, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a quiet kind of comfort, the kind that only comes from being around someone who doesn’t need to talk all the time to make things feel right.

After a moment, Elias stood up, brushing off his pants like there was something to dust away, then he motioned to the bed, his voice soft, “You can sit wherever you want, by the way.”

You nodded, standing up from the chair and crossing over to where he was, noticing how much room there was around you. Everything felt a little bigger here, but somehow more welcoming, like it was okay to be small and still feel like you mattered.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, and Elias plopped down next to you, crossing his legs underneath him. The room still felt big, but now, with him beside you, it didn’t seem so overwhelming anymore. It was like you could breathe a little easier.

The light outside had shifted slightly, the sun turning everything just a little more golden. And in that quiet, you realized that sometimes, the smallest moments—like being asked to come into a room—could make you feel like you’d found something important. Something you didn’t even know you were looking for.

──

The sound of shouting tickled your ears before your eyes even opened—high voices, tangled together like jump ropes, bouncing off fences and windows and the sleepy skin of the morning. You stirred under the covers, slow and half-dreaming, caught between a warm bed and a world already in motion. The sun wasn’t doing a very good job of heating anything yet, but it did manage to sneak through your window blinds in pale golden strips, painting soft lines across your wall like brushstrokes.

The ceiling had those little bumps all over it—the kind that looked like tiny mountains or the surface of the moon if you stared long enough. You always tried to find shapes in them. Sometimes they were rabbits or faces or secret monsters with bubble eyes. This morning, right above your bookshelf, there was an elephant. Big ears. Tiny tail. You smiled a little at it, still not ready to move.

The sheets were cool, cottony, slightly twisted around your legs from dreaming. You didn't remember what you were dreaming about. Maybe water. Maybe trees. Maybe someone is holding your hand and pulling you through tall grass. Something soft. Something far away.

Then came the voices again, louder now. “Give me a turn!” “It’s my bike!” “Lacy, stop it!”

One of them was Elias. That much you were sure of. Elias’s voice had this tin-can sharpness, like he was always halfway yelling even when he was laughing. And you always woke up late on Sundays, but his voice had a way of dragging you out of bed before your body agreed to it.

You yawned like it meant something, then sat up slow, your hair falling around your face in sleepy strands. The air smelled like the neighbor’s dryer sheet mixed with the dusty sun smell of the window frame. Crisp. Almost like autumn, even though it wasn’t.

When you finally made it downstairs, it was quiet in that certain way that told you everything. No TV. No footsteps. No music humming from the cracked bathroom speaker. Just stillness, like the house had been paused.

On the kitchen table: a note. Scrawled in rushed, loopy letters, the paper curling at one corner.

‘Court again today sweetie, there’s some left overs in the fridge if you get hungry. If you need anything go next door to Tara -love mommy.’

The note crinkled like a whisper as you folded it into your pocket, like you were tucking away a small, silent reminder that grown-up things were happening just out of reach again. The kind you weren’t supposed to ask too many questions about.

You rubbed your hands over your shorts—light-washed, a little loose in the waist—and smoothed the hem of your frilly shirt. White with tiny pink strawberries, some of the leaves fading where the washing machine tried too hard. You looked down at your mismatched socks and didn’t care. Outside was calling. And Elias was loud enough to mean it.

By the time you stepped into the yard, the sun had climbed just high enough to settle on your shoulders like a gentle push. The note in your pocket shifted with your movements—a paper hug from a faraway place. But here, here there was life. Elias’s laugh floated through the air like dandelion seeds, impossible to catch, everywhere at once.

You stood still for a second, just letting the warmth collect on your skin. There was something about early light that made the world feel like it belonged to you in secret.

Then Elias saw you.

He was mid-chase, darting after a girl in a pink shirt with ripped sleeves. "Lacy," you learned her name was—he'd been yelling it like a battle cry.

But as soon as he spotted you, he skidded to a stop, grinning in that breathless, crooked way he always did when he was excited. "Hey!" he puffed. "C'mere!"

Before you could ask anything, his hand found yours, sticky and warm, and he tugged you across the grass with the urgency of someone discovering treasure.

“Remember Kaden? Yeah this is him.” He beamed, already moving on, already wrapping an arm around a blonde boy with sunburn blooming at the edges of his cheeks. Kaden laughed as Elias gave him a shove, the kind of push that meant they were best friends or something close to it. Elias turned back to you. “This is her,” he said proudly, saying your name like it mattered. Like it explained everything.

You gave a small wave. Hesitant. Polite. Not sure if this was one of those moments where you were supposed to speak or just smile.

Then the girl—Lacy—walked up, her sneakers crunching dried leaves. She was squinting at you, maybe from the sun, maybe just in that way girls do when they’re sizing someone up. She tilted her head slightly, one braid falling over her shoulder.

“Who’s that?” she asked. Not curious, not friendly. Just flat, like maybe you weren’t worth the syllables.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Elias did it for you, again. Said your name, again. Like a shield this time.

Lacy nodded once. That was it. No smile. Just the tiniest twitch of her mouth and then her eyes were already somewhere else.

For a second, you thought about the ceiling elephant. About how sometimes things look friendlier from far away than when they’re right in front of you.

. . .

You had to swallow twice—the spit in your mouth kept gathering like it was nervous too—before your voice finally squeezed out small and scratchy.

“Hey, um… Elias? Can I have some water?”

He didn’t turn, just nodded like he’d been expecting you to ask, already grabbing your wrist like it was a leash on a dog he liked. His fingers were warm and kind of sticky, maybe from the red popsicles he always bit instead of sucked. It left a smudge on your arm, like a secret mark. Elias always held onto you like the world might try to steal you if he didn’t.

The screen door groaned as he yanked it open, the rusted spring stretching like it was sighing. Just inside, he stomped his shoes on the doormat real hard—three fast thumps like he was trying to scare something away. You paused at the edge.

The mat had tiny little blue flowers stitched into it, not like real flowers but curly ones, like the kind in cartoons. In the middle, swirly letters spelled out Home is where the heart is. You stared at it a second, trying to understand what that meant. You knew what a heart was. You’d seen the posters in the nurse's office at school. But how could it be in a house?

Your own doormat didn’t say anything. It didn’t even try. It just sat there with a corner always flipped up and cigarette ash sometimes stuck in its loops. You stepped on the flowery one anyway, like Elias did, wiping your sneakers even though they weren’t that dirty.

Then—laughter.

Not like kid laughter. Not like the yelling from outside. This was lower, thicker. Like molasses poured slow over pancakes. It filled the house in a way that made the walls feel closer, like they were leaning in to listen too. You looked up as music started—soft and scratchy, like it came from inside a seashell.

“The sight of you leaves me weak

There are no words left to speak…”

Elias was already moving, the tug on your wrist growing impatient. You followed, passing framed photos in the hallway. One showed Elias with two missing teeth and a crooked paper crown. You felt like you were walking into someone’s memory.

The kitchen was big. Not big like a castle, but big in a you-don’t-have-to-duck-to-open-the-fridge kind of way. Sunlight poured in through sheer curtains, lighting up the dust in the air like snow. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, clicking like a clock with no hands.

And then you saw them.

Tara—her dress soft and yellow, the kind of yellow that looks like sunflowers or egg yolks or butter on toast. Her arms were flung wide, laughing so hard her eyes squinted shut. She looked younger when she laughed, like maybe she used to be someone else before she was Elias’s mom. And the man—he was tallish with a scruffy beard and a rolled-up button shirt and socks that didn’t match. He held her like he knew exactly where she was going to step next.

The record player sat on a cart with golden wheels and little bottle holders, though there was only one bottle on it. You thought of your mom and how she only had one wine glass, like she’d given up waiting for anyone to bring a second.

“Please let me know that it’s real

You’re too good to be true…”

The man spun Tara gently and then dipped her, just like in movies. Her laugh turned into a surprised squeal. That’s when she saw you.

“Oh!” she gasped, righting herself with one hand still resting on his chest. “We’ve got an audience.”

“Gross,” Elias muttered next to you, crossing his arms. His lip curled like the word tasted bad.

But you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You felt like you’d walked into something secret and golden. Like opening a jewelry box and finding it still played music.

Because that was his dad.

You didn’t have to ask. You could just tell. The way Tara looked at him. The way he reached for her without thinking. The way he existed in the house like it was his, not just some guy visiting.

And your chest… it started to ache. Not in a sharp way. More like when you hold your breath underwater and realize you liked it there. For a second, you imagined it was your kitchen. That your mom was in the next room, maybe putting on lipstick or yelling “Don’t spin me too hard this time!” That your dad wasn’t the kind of gone that gets locked in courtrooms and whispered about by neighbors.

The man turned to you, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

 “You must be Elias’s friend.” he said with a grin.

You nodded. Your throat felt like cotton.

“I’m—” he paused. Didn’t finish. Just smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

“Wanna dance?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Why not?” he said, walking toward you like this was just something you did with guests. “Tara says I’m not too bad.”

“I said you’re tolerable,” Tara corrected, laughing as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

You looked at Elias. Expecting him to make fun of you. But he was too busy trying to stab his straw into a Capri Sun.

You took the man’s hand.

He led gently, placing his other hand on your back like he was helping you cross a busy street. You were aware of everything—your shoes squeaking, the way your shirt stuck to your back, how the record popped softly between lyrics.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re just gonna sway. Like trees.”

You tried. It wasn’t bad. Not as embarrassing as gym class, not as stiff as the dances at school where everyone pretended not to want to be picked.

“You’re a natural,” he said.

“I just watched you,” you murmured.

He smiled. “That’s how I learned too.”

When he twirled you, your heart hiccupped. The kitchen blurred for a second, light flickering off the fridge. You thought of your dad—his laugh, which you only kind of remembered. Like the shape of a dream after you wake up.

When the song ended, he bowed slightly, still holding your hand.

“Very good, kid,” he said.

You felt warm all over. Not just your cheeks, but your stomach, your arms, your ribs. Like someone had turned the house into sunlight.

Then Elias piped up, “Alright, my turn.”

You blinked. “You… wanna dance?”

He shrugged. “You did it. Can’t let you be better than me.”

You laughed and stepped back onto the tile. Elias took your hand the same way his dad had—only sloppier, more like he was trying to mimic what he’d just seen. His hand was still a little sticky. His movements were jerky. But he was trying.

“You gotta spin me,” he said with a smirk.

“You’re too heavy.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

But you tried. And when he spun clumsily into the kitchen table and knocked a salt shaker over, you both burst into wild, messy laughter.

Tara clapped from the counter. “Now that’s a show.”

And for a moment, with laughter in your mouth and music in your ears, it didn’t matter what you didn’t have.

Because you had this.

Even if just for today.

. . .

The sun's sitting lower now, turning everything golden and kind of crooked, like the world’s leaning a little to one side. Kaden and Lacy had ran back home quite a while ago, for lacy—not before throwing you one last dirty look. You and Elias are both on your bellies in the yard, arms pressed into the itchy grass, heads close together like you’re keeping a secret from the sky. The cicadas have started up again, buzzing loud and dumb in the trees, but you don’t mind. It fills the space between words.

You find yourselves playing this small game you often do, falling into the familiar rhythm like slipping into a favorite pair of shoes—the first time had already been a year ago. 

“I got this one from falling out a tree, I broke my leg too” Elias says, like you’re comparing war wounds. He hikes up his pant leg and points to the scar, it looked like he’d gotten stitches. “Nine.”

You lean in, eyes narrowing like you’re a doctor. You trace your finger along it, just barely touching. It feels cool and stiff, like the skin there forgot how to breathe. You don’t know why, but it makes your stomach feel funny. Not sick—just... too full of something.

“Your turn,” he says, rolling his pant leg back down. His voice is quieter now. Less show-offy.

You sit up and hold out your hand. There’s not much to show—just a tiny scratch near your thumb from a sharp piece of bark earlier. Barely even a scab.

“Paper cut—again, different one this time!” you offer.

Elias snorts. “That’s not a real injury.”

“Is too,” you argue, turning your hand in the light. “Mine’s emotional.”

He laughs, but it's soft. “Nine-point-five?” he guesses.

“Nine-point-nine,” you say. “With bonus points for bravery.”

“Dramatic,” Elias mutters, but he’s smiling again. That kind of sideways smile he only does when he thinks something’s kind of dumb but also kind of sweet.

He rolls back his sleeve next, showing you a real scar. This one’s different. It runs along his forearm like a twist of lightning, the skin there shiny and weird-looking.

“I fell off my bike,” he says. “Three-point-two.”

You hum like you’re grading it. “Ouch.”

But your eyes drift down then, something catching your attention near his ankle—a bruise. It’s dark purple and yellow, puffed like fruit left out in the sun too long. You reach out without asking, fingers halfway there before your brain catches up.

Elias jerks, slapping his hand over it like you just caught him in something private. He laughs. But it’s weird. It’s not real. It’s like the laugh grown-ups make when the stove breaks and they don’t want you to know they’re about to cry.

“I—when I mess up, I just—” he starts.

Then he suddenly lifts his hand and slams his fist into the dirt beside him. Hard.

It makes a dull thud, the kind that doesn't echo but sinks straight into your bones.

You flinch. Not because you’re scared of him, but because it’s loud and fast and something in it feels wrong. Like seeing a baby bird fall out of a nest and not being able to do anything about it.

Your heart starts pounding, and you don’t know why, but tears come up quick—fast and stinging, like they were hiding in your chest all day just waiting to spill.

“You… you don’t have to do that,” you whisper, voice wobbly. “It’s okay to mess up.”

Elias won’t look at you. His eyes are tight, eyebrows all squished together like he’s holding something back. “It’s not,” he says. “Not when it’s always.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re just a kid. You don’t have the right words—no big lessons or grown-up speeches. But your throat hurts with how much you want to fix it.

“I mess up too,” you say, barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah, but no one gets mad at you when you do,” Elias mutters, still looking at the grass.

You want to tell him that’s not true, but the truth is... you don’t really know. Your mom’s not like that. And your dad—well. He’s not around enough to get mad at anything anymore. CPS made sure of that.

Your eyes land back on the bruise, and suddenly it’s not just a bruise. It’s like a little piece of sadness he pushed into his own skin because he didn’t know where else to put it.

Something inside you swells—too big for your chest, too quiet for words.

You reach into your pocket and pull out a little gum wrapper you’d folded into the shape of a star. You don’t even know why you made it, just that your fingers needed to do something earlier when Tara was dancing with Elias’s dad in the kitchen.

You hold it out. “Here.”

Elias looks at it, confused.

“It’s for when things feel bad,” you say. “You can squish it if you need to—or whatever.”

He takes it slowly, like it might fall apart. His fingers are dirty. His nails have mud under them. But he holds the star like it’s made of glass.

“Thanks,” he says, voice scratchy.

You sit there together for a minute, listening to the bugs and the faraway bark of someone’s dog. The world feels heavier than usual, but it also feels... closer. Like maybe you're not the only one carrying stuff that doesn’t show on the outside.

After a long pause, Elias nudges your elbow.

“Wanna dance again?” he asks, like it’s no big deal. Like your heart didn’t just crack open two seconds ago.

You blink. “Now?”

“No music,” he says. “We’ll just make up the beat.”

You grin a little. “Okay.”

You both stand, awkward and too-close, and then you start swaying. No rhythm, no rules. Just two kids dancing in a backyard with nothing but fading light and bruises and something soft holding you up.

And even though there’s no music, you swear you can hear it anyway.

Right there, in the quiet between your laughs and the way the grass bends under your feet.

──

three years later . . .

You press the doorbell with the edge of your fingernail, like always, the way you imagine fancy people do it in old black-and-white movies. The chime inside the house rings out soft and slow, like a lullaby trapped in a doorframe. You already know what’s coming—just before the echo fades, there’s a muffled voice.

“Elias, stop running!”

Then the thud-thud-thud of socks on tile. A laugh. A half-hearted “Sorry!” that doesn’t sound very sorry at all. The door swings open, and there he is—grinning like he just swallowed the sun and it agreed to stay.

He’s got that look he always gets when he has a secret. Eyes crinkled at the corners. Shoulders a little too still, like he’s holding something inside them. He tilts his head in that Elias way and says, almost whispering, “Come on, I have to tell you something.”

You nod like you were born ready, stepping inside fully. The house smells like fabric softener and microwave popcorn, which doesn’t make sense together, but here it works. You catch James in the living room—on the phone again, his voice low and tight, face knotted into that look adults get when the world’s being cruel. He doesn’t see you at first, or maybe he does but doesn’t want to be seen. You wave anyway, quietly, politely. You still like him.

Your eyes flick around the room, landing where they always do: the kitchen doorway. But no Tara.

She hasn’t been around much. No new cookie batches wrapped in napkins with your name on them in a scratchy red pen. No humming from the kitchen. No gentle “Hey sweet pea” when she sees you. Your mom says she’s just busy. But you’ve learned that “busy” means different things when grown-ups say it. Sometimes it means “tired” or “sad” or “trying not to disappear.”

Still, it doesn’t matter. Not really. Because Elias is here, and he always is. That’s enough. You follow him, each step up the staircase creaking like it’s announcing you’re growing older by the second.

When you hit the landing and turn out of sight from downstairs, he stops. Then leans in and kisses you.

It’s soft and quick and warm and sort of fumbled like he’s not sure if he meant to do it, but also totally meant to. You blink up at him, heart bumping against your ribs like it’s trying to listen through bone.

“Stop doing that,” you mumble, but you’re smiling. The kind that tugs slow at your mouth and makes your cheeks warm. You don’t mean it, and he knows.

“C’mon,” he says, grinning that half-smile like he already knows your answer. His eyes catch the light—green and gold, like pond water in the sun, warm and wild and hard to look away from. “Aren’t you my girlfriend now?”

You roll your eyes, but your face is already burning. You shake your head, mostly to hide the way your mouth wants to smile. “Shut up,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

But the words feel soft. Not mean. Not really.

The wind tugs gently at the hem of your shirt, and for a second, everything feels like it did before. Before the hospital. Before the sirens. Before things started falling out of place like puzzle pieces knocked off the table.

You glance down, pretending to fix your sleeve, but your heart’s thudding in that fast, fluttery way it always does around him. And you remember—how he leaned in once, under the slide, face close enough you could count the freckles on his nose. The way his voice shook a little when he said it, like it was a secret too big for the air between you: “I think I like you.”

Back then, you didn’t know what to say. You just laughed and threw mulch at his shoes, like a coward.

Now, standing here, you still don’t know.

You scoff, even though your knees are jelly. “You asked to be my boyfriend. I never said I was your girlfriend.”

He gapes at you. “That’s the same thing.”

“Is not,” you say, brushing past him with what you hope is graceful confidence. But your shoulder brushes his and that tiny touch feels like a sparkler going off in your skin. “You didn’t ask the right question.”

He groans dramatically, like the world’s betrayed him. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk. “I try.”

Just as he pushes open the door to his room, James’s voice yells from below. “Leave the door open!”

Elias lets out a frustrated grunt and throws his hands in the air. “He’s psychic, I swear.”

You try not to giggle, but it bubbles out anyway, your cheeks burning as you flop face-first into the cloud of his bedspread. It smells like him—grape shampoo and outside air and something that might be peanut butter crackers. There’s a tear in one of his pillowcases shaped almost like a bird wing.

He throws himself down beside you, arms tucked behind his head like a lazy cartoon character. You roll onto your side and poke his arm.

“Well? You dragged me up here with a come on, and now you’re just laying there like a dead possum.”

“I’m getting to it,” he mumbles, and there’s something a little bashful in his voice now.

He sits up on his elbows, and you watch him try to hide the nervousness in his fingers.

“My mom’s dragging me to this stupid fancy business thing. One of her company things. In Fresno.” He says Fresno like it’s Mars. “Only an hour away or whatever. But it’s all adults and jackets and... salad forks.”

You nod, your chin on your hand. “Sounds tragic.”

“It is. But when we get back, I wanted to take the telescope out. Sky will be clear tonight.”

You blink. “Like... out in the field?”

He nods, then shrugs, his voice soft. “Just us.”

You grin. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“And if I was?”

You pause, pretending to think, then whisper, “You didn’t ask the right question.”

Elias groans again and flops backward, hands over his face. “Unreal.”

You laugh, but the air feels full of something warm and close. The kind of feeling that makes your chest swell and ache all at once. You look at the cracked posters on his walls, the half-drawn comic pages on his desk, the old shoebox telescope he fixed with glue and tape and hope. You love all of it.

You sit up and glance at him. “You could still ask.”

He peeks through his fingers. “Ask what?”

You tilt your head. “The right question.”

He lowers his hands and looks at you fully now, eyes serious in a way he rarely lets them be.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he says, no teasing this time. Just him. The boy you’ve grown up next to. The boy who ran into your life and never left.

You nod, smile tucked shy under your chin. “Yeah. I will.”

His face breaks into that same boyish grin he always has. Like summer just broke over his face.

“Good,” he says, and there’s a beat of quiet between you.

Then, “Can I kiss you again?”

And this time, you say, “You don’t have to ask.”

You smile at him, eyes drifting down to his forearm where there was an unusual mark—a bruise.

──

Your heart feels like it’s been pulled up into your throat, lodged there and pounding so hard it makes your ears ring. The hospital smells like metal and soap and something sour, something that makes your stomach twist the longer you breathe it in. Your mother’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist like she thinks you’ll float away if she lets go—even though you’re not sure you’d move at all if she didn’t keep dragging you forward.

She’s moving too fast.

You’re trying to keep up, trying to swallow the lump in your throat and keep your eyes from spilling, but everything is too loud and too bright and too white. You hate it. You hate how the nurses don’t meet your eyes. You hate the way the hallway never ends. You hate the empty plastic bag you’re holding—the one she made you carry when she got sick from the news. You hate that you don’t even know what the news is. Not really. Just that something happened. Something bad.

When your mother finally stops in front of a closed door, her breathing is jagged and fast. She looks at you like she’s seeing you through water.

“Tara’s next door,” she says in a voice that isn’t hers. “I’m going to go see her—just… just be careful, okay?”

And then her hand slips from yours, and she’s gone, pushing through the door with a kind of desperation that scares you.

You’re left alone.

The hallway is still.

You don’t know which room is Elias’s, not really. She didn’t say. No one did. But you turn to the door beside the one your mom went through, your fingers trembling as you reach for the handle. There’s no name on it, no sign. Just a pale wooden door with a tiny rectangular window you’re too short to see through.

It creaks when you open it.

The room is dim. The blinds are halfway shut, letting in stripes of fading daylight across the floor. Machines hum quietly near the bed. You step in slowly, like the air might shatter if you breathe too loud.

Then you see him.

Elias.

He’s lying there, tucked under a pale blue blanket that looks too clean, too stiff. His face is turned toward the wall, his hair messy and dark against the pillow. There’s a bandage above his eyebrow, a scrape on his cheek, and his arm is resting stiffly against his chest, the skin there red and raw.

But it’s not the injuries that get you.

It’s the way he’s lying. Still, but not peaceful. His mouth is slightly open, his brow furrowed like he’s dreaming something awful. There’s a slow, dragging rhythm to his breathing, and for a second you think he might be asleep—until you notice the IV in his arm, the cloudy half-lidded haze behind his eyes when he stirs.

They drugged him. You can tell. His limbs look too heavy for his body. Like even blinking might be hard.

You take one slow step forward.

And then he moves. Just a little. His head rolls slightly on the pillow, and his lips part as he lets out a rough sound. Not quite a word. Not yet.

You freeze.

Then he says it.

“…Mom?”

His voice is weak, cracked and broken, barely more than a breath. But it cuts straight through you.

“Mom…?” he calls again, a little louder this time, his eyes still not open all the way. He sounds like he’s reaching for her with the part of him that’s still lost in whatever dark place he’s stuck in.

Your heart folds in on itself.

You don’t know what to say. You’re not his mom. But he doesn’t know that, not yet. Not like this.

You step closer. Quietly. Cautiously. Your fingers clutch the edge of the plastic bag so tight it crinkles in protest.

──

You walk slowly down the steps, one bare foot in front of the other, eyes trained downward like every creak beneath you might be the last straw holding everything together. You count the steps out of habit—twelve, like always—but they feel longer today, stretched by some invisible sadness that makes everything quieter, slower. You haven’t slept in three days. Not really. You tried—lying in bed, eyes shut tight, heart pounding—but the dreams always found you anyway. Too loud, too real. Too close.

You don’t tell your mom about the dreams. She’s been soft lately. Not like before, where her softness had a kind of strength to it. Now it’s a softness like bruised fruit. You can press too hard and everything will give way. You don’t want to press. You don’t even want to speak. Instead, you just gently finger the little necklace hanging from your collarbone—the one Tara gave you on that hot summer day, the one where you got too much sun and she made you lemonade so sour it made your eyes water. You rub the tiny heart-shaped charm between your fingers, like maybe you could warm it enough to bring her back.

At the bottom of the stairs, you stop. The living room is hushed in that kind of stillness that makes even the air feel like it’s waiting for something. Your mom is asleep on the couch, her head tilted back in a way that looks uncomfortable, her mouth barely parted. An empty bottle rests beside her, its label turned away like it’s ashamed to be seen. She didn’t even make it to her bedroom.

You step around the coffee table carefully, like the floor might collapse beneath your weight. You grab the thin, pilled throw blanket draped over the armrest and lay it gently over her legs. Then you reach for the bottle. It’s cold. You hold it a second too long before taking it to the sink. The clink of it settling against the porcelain sounds louder than you expect.

You glance around. No more bottles. No glasses tipped on their side. But still, everything feels out of place, like the house has forgotten how to be a home. It’s not her fault, you remind yourself, even though some small part of you wants to be angry. The calls started again after Tara’s funeral. You don’t know who they are exactly—CPS, maybe. You recognize the number now. Your mom doesn’t answer anymore. You’re afraid of what that means.

You know the front door squeaks. It always has. Tara used to say it was the house’s way of talking. You don’t want it to talk tonight. You don’t want anyone to know you’re leaving. So instead, you slip out the back, your fingers brushing the old screen door handle as gently as if it were someone's hand you were scared to hold too tight.

. . .

You don’t look at Elias’s house. Not until you have to. You keep your head down, pretend the sky is more interesting than the ghost you’re afraid of seeing in the window. You’ve been avoiding it since the funeral. It’s not just the grief—it’s the way grief can twist everything. You keep imagining Tara there, smiling, alive, like if you just knock the right way she’ll open the door, flour on her shirt and a fresh plate of cookies in her hand.

Your thumb presses against the necklace again as you ring the bell.

Silence.

No thudding footsteps, no yelling from Tara about muddy shoes, no Elias shouting “I got it!” from upstairs. The porch feels emptier without her voice. You think about leaving. You almost do. But your hand stays at your side, your feet glued to the welcome mat that hasn’t really felt welcoming since the day of the funeral.

Then, finally, the door creaks open.

James.

He looks… older. Not in years, but in something else. In the deep shadows under his eyes, the sag in his shoulders. The stale smell of cigarettes rolls out the moment the door opens, curling in your nose like something sour. He stares at you for a moment, like he doesn’t recognize you. Or maybe he does, and that’s the problem.

“Hello— I, could I see Elias, please?” Your voice is too soft, too polite for how much you need to see him.

James doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are glassy, red at the rims, and he smells like he’s been trying to forget something. The silence stretches too long, until all you can hear is the barking dog down the street and the wind tickling the dying leaves in the gutter.

“He’s not here,” James finally mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Haven’t seen him since he got into it with his dad.”

Your stomach drops. You feel it like a stone tossed into a pond—heavy, cold, rippling outward until it reaches every corner of you.

“I—I don’t understand…”

James sighs, long and tired. “Found him messing with the Benadryl. Thought it’d help him sleep. Wrong amount. He’s okay. He’s okay now.” He repeats it like if he says it enough times, it’ll make it true. “Everything’s locked up now, but… he hasn’t come back since. Been disappearing a lot.”

You stare at him, trying to figure out what to say. What to feel. The necklace suddenly feels like it’s choking you.

James glances down, notices it, and for just a second, something shifts in his expression. Something softer. Regret, maybe.

You take a step back, the tears already burning behind your eyes. “I’m—sorry. Thank you,” you mumble, and then you’re running.

The sidewalk blurs beneath your shoes. You don’t know where you’re going, but you can’t go home yet, and you can’t stay still either. The sky above is cloudless, wide and endless, but you don’t look up. You just run.

And in your chest, where your heart should be, is a hollow ache. The kind that feels like it could echo forever.

You think about Elias’s voice in the hospital, calling out for her. You think about how small he sounded. How scared. You think about her cookies, the little ribbon notes she tied around the saran wrap. You think about the time she gave you her last chocolate chip one, just because you looked sad.

You wonder what love is. If it’s just something people give out in bits, like candy from a jar. Or if it’s like light. Endless. Unseen, but always warm. Always reaching.

You close your eyes.

Somewhere, you hope, Elias is looking at the sky.

──

Thud!

You jerk awake like you’ve been yanked from the bottom of a lake, lungs tight and gasping. Your room is quiet except for the pounding of your heart—loud and uneven like sneakers on pavement. For a moment, you just lie there, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, blinking at the cracked ceiling above. Maybe it’s just another dream, you think. Another cruel rerun in the theater of your mind. Lately, they've all ended the same—Elias laughing, Tara humming in the kitchen, the clink of cookie trays. But right as you're about to speak in the dream, to say something—anything—everything goes quiet. Then she’s gone again.

Thud.

You sit up this time. That one wasn’t in your head.

You don’t even bother checking the clock. You already know it’s way past the hours where the world is soft and sleeping. The room is still faintly lit by the glow of your nightlight—one you pretended you didn’t need anymore but couldn’t bring yourself to unplug. You push the covers away, cold air kissing your bare legs as you tiptoe to the window, careful not to wake your mom. She’s been sleeping on the couch again, and the smell of her breath lately reminds you of rust and fruit gone bad.

Outside, the moon is low and yellow, like a sick coin. And standing under it—no, leaning—is Elias.

You think your heart forgets how to beat.

He's really there, just beneath your window like some haunted echo of himself. Slouched against the fence, hood over his head, one sneaker untied. His breath is visible in the cold, fogging up with every exhale like a secret he's trying not to tell. The porch light from your neighbor's house cuts across his face—he looks older somehow, more boy than kid now, but tired. He looks so, so tired.

A choked sound stumbles out of you before you even realize you’re crying.

You don’t even bother with socks or shoes—you race out your door, nearly tripping over the hallway rug, down the stairs, skipping the third step because it creaks, past your mom on the couch, her form twisted under the throw blanket you tucked her in with earlier.

You don’t touch the front door. It squeaks too loud. Instead, you slip out the back.

The moment you reach him, your arms wrap tight around his middle, and it’s not elegant or movie-like—it’s desperate and clumsy. You crash into him like a wave trying to swallow the sand. His body stiffens at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, with you, with the weight of being seen. Then slowly, so slowly, he folds into you, forehead falling against your neck.

You can feel it—his breath hitching, his body shivering despite the hoodie, the sharp, warm sting of tears on your skin.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he whispers, voice cracked like a vinyl record left out in the sun. “I messed up. Again.”

Your fingers clutch at the back of his sweater—it's a dark blue, you realize, not black. You remember Tara once said blue was his favorite color. Said it reminded him of space, of being far away but not alone. Now it just looks like a bruise stretched over his back.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, “You're here now.”

He pulls away just enough to look at you. His eyes are rimmed red, and his nose is running, and he’s got this expression like he’s a little boy again, just needing someone to tell him the monsters aren’t real. But you both know they are. You’ve seen them. They live inside your homes, your heads, the quiet corners of grief no one likes to clean.

Then he flinches when you hold his arm.

You feel it before he says anything. The tension, the way he pulls just slightly. Your stomach turns, and not from fear. From knowing. From understanding too much.

“Eli…” you breathe.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, ashamed and small and wishing he was anywhere but here. You gently tug his sleeve up—he lets you, barely. And there it is. Red, raw, smeared like anger on canvas.

“I wasn’t trying to…” he starts, then stops. “I just wanted it to stop for a little while.”

You nod, even though it hurts. Not because you agree, but because you get it. Because sometimes silence feels like the only thing that listens.

“Come inside,” you whisper. “Let me clean you up.”

He hesitates. “Your mom—?”

“She won’t wake up.”

You take his hand—he’s freezing—and lead him through the back door, careful to close it softly behind you. The kitchen is dim, the hum of the fridge the only sound. You sit him at the table while you shuffle through drawers for the little first-aid kit you always keep under the sink. You used to use it for scraped knees and splinters. Now… now it feels like a lifeline.

You clean him up slowly. The alcohol stings. He winces but doesn’t pull away. Your hands are gentle. You don't say anything about the marks, but your touch says it for you: I see you. I still care. I'm not leaving.

When you're done, you take one of your mom's clean dish towels and wrap it gently around his arm. It's warm from your hands, and something about that seems to anchor him. He breathes in deep, leans his head against your shoulder.

“I thought about her,” he says after a while, his voice barely a sound. “I tried to talk to her. Like she could hear me.”

You nod, eyes stinging.

“I still wear the necklace,” you whisper. “The one she gave me.”

He lifts his head and looks at you, really looks. Then, with shaky fingers, he reaches out and touches it gently where it sits against your collarbone.

. . .

You don’t remember how you managed to get Elias up the stairs, not really. Your feet moved on their own, one step at a time, like they knew where to go even if your mind was somewhere else. His arm hung over your shoulders, heavier than it used to be. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Every few steps he stumbled, and you caught him. Like always.

By the time you reach your room, your arms feel numb and shaky. You nudge the door open with your foot. The quiet creak sounds louder than usual in the dark. Everything feels louder lately—the hum of the fridge downstairs, the wind scraping against your window at night, your own thoughts. It’s like the world forgot how to be quiet when Tara died.

You help him sit down on your bed, the sheets slightly messy from when you left earlier. They still smell like your body lotion and that cheap lavender spray your mom uses. Elias sinks into the mattress without a word, his shoulders curling inward like he’s trying to disappear.

You sit beside him, your knees touching. It’s quiet for a second. Then another. Then he breaks.

He leans into you suddenly, with a weight that steals your breath for a moment, and the sobs just tear out of him—raw and messy and loud in a way that makes something inside you ache. You wrap your arms around him like instinct, pulling him close, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. He clutches at your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating off.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, but the words feel small. Useless.

Because it’s not okay. He’s bleeding, inside and out. You saw it, those deep red lines on his arms, swollen and fresh. You hate the sight of blood. It makes your chest hurt and your stomach twist. But what hurts more is knowing he did it himself. That he felt that alone. That scared. That far away from you.

You press your face into his shoulder and start crying too, quietly at first—just a few stifled sobs—but then it’s like your body gives up trying to be strong. You both cry into each other, not even saying anything anymore. Just crying. And maybe that’s the most honest either of you have been in a long time.

He curls tighter into you, like he’s trying to climb inside your ribs and hide there. His tears wet your neck, and you can feel the heat of his breath, ragged and uneven. You stroke the back of his hair with shaky fingers. It’s longer now. You liked it better short, but you don’t say that. You just breathe him in, salty and warm and Elias.

After a while, when the crying dies down and the room feels still again, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t react, not really. His eyes are open but empty. You rest your forehead against his.

“I wish I could fix it,” you whisper. “I wish I could make it stop hurting.”

He lets out a dry little laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all. “I don’t think anybody can.”

His sobs start to fade slowly, like rain letting up. His body stops shaking so much, and the air feels thicker now, filled with the things you both aren't saying. Then, in a voice that's small and hoarse and barely him, he mumbles, “I have a headache.”

You glance down. “I can get you something.”

He lifts his face just enough to meet your eyes. His are red and watery and exhausted. “No—don’t get up. Just tell me where it is.”

You hesitate, and he sees it. Sees the way your lips part, then press together again, sees the flicker of fear in your eyes, like you don’t want to let go.

“I swear,” he says gently. “I’ll come right back. I promise.”

You nod slowly. “It’s in my closet… in my backpack. The little pocket, on the front.”

“Got it.”

He sits up, and you feel the cold air rush into the space where he was. He’s quiet on his feet, like he always is—soft steps across the room. You watch him kneel down by your closet, unzip your bag. He holds the bottle of Tylenol like it’s something delicate. Then, he hesitates. For a moment, he just stares at it, his face unreadable in the unicorn glow.

You’re too tired to ask what he’s thinking. You turn over, your face pressed into the pillow, and close your eyes. You can still feel his warmth on your skin, still hear the faint sniffle when he thinks you’re not listening.

And then you hear it—soft footsteps. The creak of the mattress. The way the bed dips under his weight as he climbs back in. He slides behind you, wrapping an arm around your middle, and presses his face into your shoulder blade.

“See,” he whispers, voice barely there, “I came back.”

Your fingers find his again, and you hold on. Not tight, but enough. Just enough to say, I know.

In the silence, you think about how scary it is to love someone this much. To feel their pain like it’s your own. To see someone you care about so much, crumbling. There’s something about it that feels like growing up too fast—like you blinked and the world changed without you.

But for now, there’s nothing else to do. Just breathe. Just sleep.

And hope he’s still here when you wake up.

──

He’s not.

The indent in the mattress is still warm.

You stare at it for a long second, unmoving, the room quiet except for the soft whir of the old ceiling fan that ticked every now and then like it was struggling to breathe. The blankets are tangled, bunched where you and Elias had curled up the night before, holding onto each other like you were the only things left keeping the other from disappearing. You remember how he cried—shook in your arms, buried his face in your chest like it was the only place left that didn’t hurt. And you’d cried too, even though you didn’t mean to. Even though you’d told yourself not to.

You drag yourself out of bed slowly, wincing at the way your body aches—like grief somehow settled into your bones and made a home there. You wipe at your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, trying to rub away the crust of dried tears, and make your way to the door.

Your feet are bare against the wood floor, cold, and you flinch when you step on something—a bobby pin? A dried leaf tracked in from outside? You don’t even look. Everything feels far away, dream-like. The house smells like something slightly burnt—probably toast or maybe the coil heater your mom never remembers to turn off. The kind of smell that made things feel weirdly real.

Halfway down the stairs, you hear them.

Soft voices. Your mother’s and Elias’s. They’re not loud, but they carry, little threads of words floating through the air like dust motes. You grip the railing a little tighter. For a second, you stay frozen, half-caught in the space between floors, like if you go all the way down something might change again.

Then you see them.

Your mom is on the couch, her posture slouched but not in a hopeless way—more like someone who’s tired and trying anyway. There’s a glass on the table next to her. Not water. But not the usual bottle either. She’s talking. To Elias. And he’s actually listening. He’s sitting close but not too close, like he’s being careful. His hoodie sleeves are pulled all the way down past his palms. You can’t see his face from here, just the angle of his head slightly turned toward her, nodding slowly.

You smile.

It’s soft, a little crooked, because your heart still aches and your head feels foggy, but it’s real. He didn’t leave. Not really. Not yet.

You come down the rest of the stairs quietly. When Elias notices you, his eyes soften in that way they always do when he sees you like you’re the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath his feet.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little hoarse. He shifts like he’s going to stand but doesn’t.

“Hey,” you echo, and sit on the edge of the armrest next to him. Your knee brushes his and he doesn’t move away.

Your mom reaches over, gently brushing some hair out of your face. “Didn’t mean to wake you, baby.”

“You didn’t,” you lie. “I just… woke up.”

Elias glances down at his hands. You notice he’s holding something—a mug, half-empty with what might’ve been hot cocoa, though knowing your mom it probably has more milk than chocolate powder. He turns it absently in his hands.

“I should probably head back,” he says after a beat, not looking at you when he says it. “My.. Dad is probably wondering where I am.”

You nod, trying to keep your face still, even though something inside you crumples a little. You want to say no. You want to say stay. But something in his voice makes you think he needs to go—for now, at least.

Your mom shifts, looking between you both. “Let me drive you,” she says. Her voice is a little slurred at the edges, but steady enough. She’s trying. You see it in the way she sits straighter, reaches for her keys on the hook near the door.

You bite back the remark that his home isn't too far away, taking note of how the alcohol affects the entirety of her brain. 

“I can walk,” Elias says, quickly, softly. “It’s still early.”

There’s a pause, quiet except for the distant hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower starting up even though the grass is still damp with dew.

You stand up with him.

He gives your mom a small smile—grateful, maybe. Maybe tired. “Thanks for… talking to me. And the cocoa.”

Your mom nods like it’s no big deal, but her eyes are watery, and she doesn’t say anything more.

You walk him to the back door, where the grass is still wet from last night’s sprinkler. He looks at you for a second, like he’s memorizing your face. You wonder if he is.

“I’ll be back,” he says, and his voice is small. Real small. Like it’s only for you.

“You better,” you whisper back.

Then, because you can’t help it, you reach out and hug him again. His arms wrap around you tighter this time. His chin rests in the crook of your neck for a second, and you feel the softest whisper of breath as he says it again.

“I’ll be back.”

When he finally lets go, his eyes are a little red, but he’s not crying. Not now. Not in front of you.

You watch him go until he disappears past the tree line behind your backyard, the morning light hitting his sweater, making it look almost blue this time instead of black.

The back door creaks shut behind you.

You stand there for a long time, still barefoot on the cool tile, your fingers brushing over the necklace Tara gave you, twisting it gently between your thumb and forefinger like a prayer. Like a promise.

. . .

You don’t mean to be clingy. Or overly attached. Or whatever else people like to call it when someone’s hurting and needs someone. But still—you’re running again. Barefoot, hair tangled, the cool wind biting at your skin like it’s punishing you for feeling too much. You tell yourself it’s ‘just because,’ like that excuses anything. You don’t say the truth aloud. You don’t have to. It hums behind your ribs like an old refrigerator left running too long.

You hadn’t meant to yell at your mother. It wasn’t her fault. It never was.

But when she told you—quietly, like she didn’t want the words to breathe too loud—that there was another court meeting scheduled, and that this time she could actually go to jail if she didn’t show up, something cracked. Had there been another ‘Emotional hindering incident’ You’d be taken away. You didn’t even remember standing up. Didn’t realize how loud your voice had gotten until she flinched.

Like you were someone else. Someone dangerous. Someone like him.

The breath left your lungs so fast it made your chest ache. And then you were out the door again, running before you could see her cry. Running, like Elias always does when it gets too heavy. Like maybe you’d outrun the guilt if you just moved fast enough.

When you get to Elias’s house, you’re knocking before you even think to breathe. Hard. Like your knuckles want to bruise.

His dad.

It takes you a second to recognize him.

The man standing in the doorway isn’t the same one who used to hand you and Elias dripping ice cream cones through the rolled-down truck window, or who used to laugh at Elias’s terrible knock-knock jokes like they were brand new. It isn’t even the man who danced with you once in the kitchen, spinning you around with a crooked smile while Tara clapped along, teasing him about his two left feet.

This version of him is quieter. Thinner, somehow, even though he’s the same size. His eyes don’t move much—they just sit in his face like wet stones, heavy and blank. His wedding ring is still there, but dull. His shirt smells like cigarette smoke and whatever grief smells like when it soaks too deep into your skin.

He stares at you like he’s seeing through you—like you’re not a kid at his door but a shadow that won’t go away.

He looks down at you, and it’s not the way he used to.

Not like when he’d ruffle your hair and call you “kid,” You’d laughed so hard your stomach hurt. You remember the way his hands felt safe then.

But this look—it isn’t any of that. It’s hollow. Not angry, not warm, not even tired. Just… like a door slightly ajar that no one bothered to shut.

But it still feels silly. Silly that some part of you thought he could ever be a father. Your father. As if someone like you got things like that.

“Upstairs,” he says, flat. No nod. No greeting. Just the word. Then he turns and disappears back into the house, barefoot on the cold floor.

You wait until he’s out of sight before you move, as if stepping too soon might crack the air around you. When you start up the stairs, your feet make no sound, but your heart thuds like a hammer inside a hollow chest.

You reach the top.

Elias’s door is open.

You stop at the doorway.

And for a second—just a second—you think maybe you’ve made a mistake. That maybe this isn’t Elias’s room anymore. Or maybe time moved on without asking, and the walls forgot him. Everything feels wrong. Stiff. Unlived-in.

The walls are bare, like someone erased him. No band posters curling at the corners. No taped-up Polaroids. No drawings you two made during sleepovers, where every person had square heads and stars wore sunglasses. The desk is cleared off like it’s waiting for someone new to move in. The bed is too neat. Tucked in. Straightened. Like he doesn’t sleep in it, just folds himself into it quietly and waits for morning.

The only thing still alive in the room is a crooked calendar nailed to the wall. April. The days are clean. Bare squares. Empty like the rest of the room. You wonder if he even flips the pages anymore.

“Thought I should clean up a bit,” Elias says from inside.

His voice is too soft. Too even. It doesn’t match the boy you know. It sounds like someone trying very hard not to cry or scream or both.

You walk in, slow, and sit on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress barely moves. The silence makes everything feel fragile. Like if you breathe too loud, the room might crack.

“It’s... empty,” you say, your voice caught somewhere between awe and something like grief.

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Why’d you throw everything away?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just gives you a half-smile that’s all lips and no teeth. Not the happy kind. The tired kind. The kind people wear when they don’t want to be asked more questions.

“I didn’t throw it away,” he says finally. “Kaden came over. I gave him some stuff. Thought he should have it.”

You don’t reply. Your stomach turns a little, like it knows something you don’t want to.

He stands and walks over to the closet. It still has clothes in it, but barely. The hangers clang against each other, the sound too loud in the stillness. The few shirts left hang limply, like ghosts. He reaches to the very back and pulls something out, dust trailing behind.

It’s the telescope.

The cheap, old one with chipped paint and a sticker of a dolphin half-peeled off the side. The one you passed between your bedroom windows with a knotted-up rope when you were nine. The one he used to signal you with—three flashes of a flashlight when the stars were out and he wanted you to come look.

He holds it out to you, like it weighs nothing.

“I want you to have this.”

You stare at it. And for a moment, you hate it. Because it’s not a telescope. It’s a goodbye in disguise.

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it.

“I don’t want it,” you whisper.

He frowns, just slightly. “Why not?”

“Because I know what it means when people start giving away their favorite things.”

Elias looks at you, and something flickers in his face. Something quiet. Something scared.

“I’m not running away,” he says.

You shake your head. “It’s not just about running. It’s like you’re… making room. For something else. Or for nothing at all.”

He sighs and sits back down beside you, the telescope still in his lap.

“You used it more than I did anyway,” he says. “Remember when you swore up and down that you saw a UFO?”

“You said it was a UFO!”

“I didn’t want to admit we were just looking at a plane.”

You both laugh, barely, like the memory is a balloon half-deflated. Floating somewhere near the ceiling.

“I’m still not taking it,” you say. “If I take it, it’s like I’m saying it’s okay.”

“And if you don’t, it just sits in the closet and collects dust.”

“Then let it collect dust.”

He doesn’t fight you anymore. Just sets the telescope gently on the bed between you both, like it’s a fragile creature. And for a minute, neither of you speak. You just sit there, listening to the walls creak and the hum of the air vent and the silence between breaths.

Then Elias shifts. Looks over at you, a little sideways.

“Can you sneak out tonight?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

He shrugs. “It’s a surprise.”

You stare at him. “You’re being weird.”

“Yeah. I know.” He smirks faintly, eyes shadowed. “But come anyway. One o’clock. I’ll knock on your window.”

You pause. Think about the telescope. The calendar. The red X you’d seen on one of the days. The way he’s been stripping his world down, piece by piece.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He stands again. Starts picking at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, he looks at you like the old Elias. The one from before. Even if just for a second.

“Good.”

You leave the room a while later, but your heart stays behind. Caught somewhere between the bed and the telescope and the space where something sacred used to live.

And at 1:00 a.m,  you’ll be waiting.

Even if the sky’s empty. Even if all the stars are gone.

You’ll still be there.

──

And you were.

You were waiting by the window like some half-dreaming thing, forehead pressed to the cold glass, fingers restless against the edge of the sill. The moon hung low, sleepy-eyed and thin, and the trees swayed in slow-motion, like they were stretching out their bones after too long standing still. Every sound made you flinch—a car engine in the distance, a branch against the roof, your mom shifting in her sleep on the other side of the house. But when the soft tap finally came, you didn’t hesitate.

Now you’re trailing behind Elias, sneakers soft on the pavement, gravel crunching under your feet like whispered secrets. It’s so late—or maybe it’s so early—that the whole world feels paused. Streetlights cast halos on the ground, and your shadows follow behind you like loyal ghosts. The neighborhood looks different like this. Stranger. Familiar in a way that makes you nervous, like running into a teacher outside of school.

Elias’s hand is in yours. Not tight. Just there. Your fingers keep brushing the creases in his knuckles, the little places where he's been scraped or scarred by life, or his own hands, or worse. You don’t speak for a while. The silence is full but soft, like cotton stuffed in your ears. And then, just to say something, you murmur, “I’ve never gone this way before.”

He glances back at you. The corners of his mouth twitch up in that quiet, crooked smirk of his, like he knows something you don’t. Maybe he does. But before you can smile back, the light from a passing streetlamp brushes his face, and you see it—a faint red mark, high on his cheekbone. Like a memory someone tried to erase but didn't rub hard enough.

Your stomach drops a little.

You stop walking and reach out, gently catching his chin between your fingers, turning his face toward you like it’s a page you’re trying to reread. “You said you’d stop,” you whisper.

Your voice doesn’t accuse him. It just hurts. It’s not a demand. It’s a reminder. A hope. A plea knotted up in something too big for your small, shaking hands.

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

You want him to explain. You want him to lie. You want him to tell you something dumb, like he fell asleep on his phone, or tripped over his own shoe, or got stung by a wasp that really had it out for him.

Instead, he frowns. The line between his eyebrows deepens like someone pressed their thumb there.

“I didn’t,” he says quietly. “It was my dad.”

And you feel it again. That awful, useless ache that flares behind your ribs when you hear something you can’t fix. You drop your hand. The warmth of his skin lingers on your fingertips like a bruise.

You don’t ask anything else. You know how it is with him—if you dig too hard, he’ll bury it deeper. So you just keep walking, side by side, like you’re trying to find the edge of the world together.

The streets start to widen. Houses grow farther apart. Fences get lower, or vanish completely, like they stopped trying to keep things out. You pass a sagging basketball hoop, a mailbox with no door, a plastic flamingo lying sideways in the grass like it gave up mid-stride.

Eventually, the sidewalk curves into something softer. Gravel turns to dirt. And you see it.

The Park.

You remember it immediately, but it takes your breath in a way you weren’t expecting. At night, it’s different. Quiet. A little haunted. The playground looks like something abandoned after a storm—rusty swings swaying slightly in the breeze, the slide glinting dully under moonlight. The grass is wild here, reaching up past your ankles.

Elias doesn’t say anything. Just keeps walking until he reaches the little hill near the back—the one you both used to roll down until you got grass stains your moms couldn’t scrub out. He sits at the top and waits. You sit beside him.

You can see everything from here.

The whole park spills out beneath you, stretched wide and silent like a photograph taken years ago and left too long in the sun. The edges of things blur in the dim light—shapes more than details. But you know what’s there. You know it the way you know the sound of his voice, even when it’s whisper-soft. Even when it’s breaking.

There’s the jungle gym, still clinging to life, chipped paint and all. The slide you once dared each other to jump off mid-way, pretending to be stunt actors in a movie no one was filming. The little basketball court with the bent rim and the single hoop that always tilted just slightly left, like it was tired of trying to stay straight.

And the bench.

It’s just a shadow now, tucked under a tree like it's hiding. But you remember that day clear as glass. When Tara had yelled at Elias for sneaking chocolate from the grocery store checkout—how her voice echoed, sharp and scared. You remember how his hands shook, even after she was gone. How he wouldn’t look at you until you pulled the candy from your pocket like a magician, split it down the middle, and handed him half.

You'd eaten it with your legs swinging, knees knocking together, laughing with your mouths full like you were getting away with something huge. Like maybe sugar could fix everything.

Now the whole park holds its breath.

It’s not the same anymore. Maybe you’re not either.

Elias shifts beside you, propped up on his elbows, his hoodie hood half-fallen down his back. You’re both sitting on the old hill behind the swings, the one you used to roll down until you were dizzy and grass-stained and breathless with laughter. It feels steeper now. Or maybe you’ve just gotten taller. Older.

He turns his head toward you, and you do the same, your faces just inches apart in the soft glow of the moon and the far-off streetlight. His expression is unreadable for a moment—eyes flicking over your features like he’s trying to memorize them.

Then he looks at your lips.

Not long. Just a glance.

And suddenly, his mouth curls up at the edge, that crooked grin of his making a slow return like the tide. Mischievous. Familiar. Sad, too, if you’re looking close enough.

“You kiss me this time,” he says, quiet but certain, like he’s daring you and also begging you all at once.

Your breath hitches.

Not because you’re surprised—because deep down, you aren’t. But because something in his voice makes the world tilt a little. Like this is more than just a joke. More than just a first kiss.

You blink, try to smile, but your lips feel too dry. You swallow hard.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper, not pulling away. “You didn’t even ask nicely.”

He laughs softly, looking down between you for a second. “Please,” he says, lifting his gaze again, and the way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a question. It sounds like a goodbye wrapped in a single word.

You search his face, heart hammering. There’s something shaking under his skin. Not his hands, not his breath, but something deeper. Like a thread coming loose and unraveling just behind his ribs.

You lean in, slowly, like the air between you might crack if you move too fast. Your nose brushes his. He doesn’t flinch. Just closes his eyes.

And you kiss him.

It’s soft. Slower than you thought it would be. Not like in the movies where everything’s urgent and breathless. No, this feels... sacred. Like pressing your lips to something fragile. Something you want to keep.

When you pull back, his eyes open, glassy in the dark. He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

But he exhales, long and shaky, and then shifts closer until your foreheads touch.

“I’m glad it was you,” he murmurs.

You don’t ask what he means. You’re too scared to.

And then, after a while, he says your name.

It’s quiet. Not even really loud enough to pull you out of your thoughts, but you turn to look at him anyway.

His eyes are on the ground. Then they flick up. Then back down.

There’s a weird pause, like something’s caught in his throat.

And then he says it. “I love you.”

The words fall out all at once, like they’ve been locked behind his teeth for too long.

You blink at him.

Your brain doesn’t catch up right away. For a second it feels like maybe you imagined it, or maybe he didn’t mean it that way, and you’re about to embarrass yourself. But he’s still looking at you. Not smiling. Not joking. Just watching, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with the pieces he just gave you.

You stare at him for a moment longer, heart rattling behind your ribs. You didn’t think love confessions happened in real life. At least not like this. You thought maybe there’d be music or something. Maybe fireworks. But all there is, is the sound of your breathing and the soft clink of the swing set behind you and the feeling like your whole chest just cracked open.

“I love you too,” you say.

And it’s shaky. Barely even comes out right. But it’s real.

You mean it with every cell in your stupid, aching, thirteen-year-old body.

And when he doesn’t say anything back, you keep talking, because that’s what you do when you’re scared the quiet might swallow you.

“You know,” you whisper, nudging your shoulder against his, “we’re gonna get married one day.”

That gets a little sound out of him. Not a laugh, not really. Just a puff of air, like he can’t help it.

“Oh yeah?” he says, not turning to look at you.

“Yeah. It’s already decided. I decided.”

He makes a face, kind of playful but not quite there. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you grin. “I’ll wear a white dress and we’ll dance in the backyard and you’ll cry when you see me coming down the aisle.”

“I don’t cry,” he mutters, a little defensive.

“You will,” you say, bumping his knee with yours.

He’s quiet again. So you go on, filling in the blanks he won’t.

“We’ll live in a little house. Nothing fancy. Maybe near a hill so we can roll down it in the summer. And we’ll have a dog. Or a cat. No, both. And we’ll name the dog something dumb like Pickles and we’ll fight over what school to send our kid to—because we’re only having one, okay? I’m not getting outnumbered by babies.”

He doesn’t laugh, but something flickers in his expression.

You lean your head on his shoulder and close your eyes.

“She’ll have your eyes,” you whisper. “Our kid. The annoying one who won’t eat anything but dino nuggets. She’ll have your eyes and your hair and your stupid sense of humor.”

He shifts under your weight, and for a moment you wonder if he’s going to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

He just lets you rest there.

And then he says, “Yeah. Maybe.”

But it doesn’t sound like he believes it. It sounds like he’s saying it because he knows you want to hear it. Because he doesn’t want to ruin the picture you’re painting, even if he’s not in it.

You open your eyes again.

The park looks different now. Sadder, maybe. You can’t tell if that’s just you.

You look at him and suddenly realize he never looked at the stars tonight.

Not even once.

And the ache that builds behind your ribs makes you want to scream, but you don’t.

You just hold his hand tighter, hoping maybe that’ll be enough.

That it’ll anchor him here, even if only for tonight.

Even if only for now.

──

Not just in sound, but in the way it makes your chest tighten, like something is cracking open inside you. Sirens howl through the neighborhood, one after another, their wailing overlapping until the whole world feels like it’s screaming. You sit up so fast you get dizzy, your heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out. For a second, you don’t know where you are. Everything’s dark, and your blanket is tangled around your legs like it’s trying to hold you still.

Then your mother’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Get up,” she says, her voice sharp, panicked. “We have to go to the hospital—it’s Elias.”

That’s all it takes.

You don’t ask questions. You don’t think. You follow her out of the room barefoot, down the hallway that suddenly feels too long, past the living room where the TV still glows with a late-night infomercial, and out into the open air that feels like it’s pressing down on you from all sides.

And then you see it.

The lights are everywhere. Red and blue bouncing off the windows, flashing over the pavement, painting the grass in chaotic colors that don’t belong. Three police cars. An ambulance. A fire truck. And more people than you can count, all moving quickly, some talking into radios, others huddled together like they’re trying to keep the sky from falling.

You freeze at the edge of the driveway. Your mouth is open but no sound comes out.

The woman sobbing near the mailbox, her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably—you recognize her after a moment. It’s James’s wife. Her cries are sharp, gasping, like she can’t catch her breath, and James is there too, holding her, but he’s not crying. His face is pale, locked in something between disbelief and devastation, like he hasn’t fully accepted that this is real.

Your eyes scan the scene, searching, desperate.

And then you see him.

Elias.

They’re carrying him out on a stretcher, his body strapped down, his head tilted slightly to the side. The paramedics move fast, lifting him into the back of the ambulance with the kind of urgency that makes your legs go numb. His face is pale. So pale. His eyes are closed, lashes unmoving, skin sickly under the harsh fluorescent light that spills from the ambulance. One of the medics is doing something—pumping, pushing, shouting something you can’t hear over the noise.

You shake your head.

No. No.

Your legs finally move.

“Elias!” you scream, the name tearing out of your throat like it’s caught on something.

Your voice cracks halfway through. You stumble forward, heart crashing in your ears, reaching for him like you can pull him back just by being near enough, like he might open his eyes and laugh and say just kidding, like he always used to after scaring you.

But he doesn’t.

Your mother grabs you before you can get too close. She’s already spoken to one of the officers, and her face is pale, mouth pressed into a tight line. Her arms wrap around you, firm and unrelenting, trying to keep you grounded, but all it does is make you feel trapped. You try to twist out of her grip.

You twist hard, wrenching yourself out of her arms, and this time she lets you go.

You stumble back, bare feet slapping against the cold pavement. The air claws at your skin, sharp and mean. Then you’re running—through the open front door, past the hallway with the picture of you and your mom at the beach, where your hair is wet and your smile is real. Past the living room where the blanket still sits in a crumpled heap, the one he used to wrap himself in like armor.

Up the stairs. Too fast. Your legs don’t work right, but you force them anyway.

Halfway up, your knee crashes into the edge of a step. It makes a crack sound, and it hurts—but the pain feels like background noise, like the static on a broken TV. You’re crying now. Not the quiet kind. The loud, messy kind that steals your breath and makes your mouth taste like salt and panic.

You throw open your bedroom door like it might save you, fingers shaking so bad it takes two tries.

You drop to the floor hard, knees bruising against the carpet. Your hands move without thinking, tearing through piles of old t-shirts and socks and those dumb jeans you never wear. You grab the backpack—the one he gave back to you a few weeks ago, like it didn’t mean anything, like he didn’t know what he was leaving behind.

Your fingers dive into the front pocket. That’s where you left it. You’re sure. You remember.

And then you feel it.

A bottle.

Your stomach turns so fast it feels like your whole body is flipping inside out.

No.

You yank it out, heart in your throat, thudding so loud you can’t hear anything else.

It’s light. Way too light.

Your hands fumble with the cap, shaking like they’ve forgotten how to move.

Please be full. Please be full. Please. You whisper it out loud, like maybe the universe will hear you and rewind the last few hours like a tape. You’ll wake up, and it’ll all be fine, and none of this will be happening.

You open it.

Nothing.

Just the ghost of powder dusting the inside.

You freeze. The air feels too thick to breathe.

No. No. This isn’t right. You counted them. You remember. You’re careful. You always double-check. You put it back after you made sure it was there.

But it’s empty.

And suddenly the air in the room feels poisonous. Like it’s not meant for lungs.

Your stomach lurches, and you fold over, forehead to the floor, the backpack clutched so tight to your chest it hurts. The bottle bites into your palm, sharp-edged plastic digging into your skin.

The walls are all wrong now—tilted, shrinking. Your room looks like a dollhouse someone’s stomping on. The colors don’t look like they’re supposed to. The corners are too dark.

You shut your eyes, hard. Try to rewind time with your fists and your breath and the way you whisper please, please, please into the carpet.

It has to be a mistake. Maybe someone else—maybe your mom moved it, maybe he just—maybe he didn’t take them, maybe he just needed to hold it, to feel like he could if he wanted to. Maybe he just—

But you see her face again. The way her mouth was trembling when she said his name. And you remember how he looked the last time you talked about the future, how quiet he got. How it felt like he was already halfway gone, even when his hand was wrapped in yours.

You squeeze the bottle tighter, hard enough to make your knuckles burn. You wait.

Any second now, you’ll hear him tapping on your window. You’ll turn around and he’ll be there, with that stupid, crooked grin. He’ll say something dumb, like you look like a raccoon when you cry, and you’ll laugh through your snot because he always makes you laugh.

Any second now. But the window stays quiet. And the bottle stays empty. And you stay curled up on the floor, like if you’re small enough, you can disappear too.

──

author's note: very heavily based off this movie, let me know if the spotify link doesn't work !

ps: there will be a second elias fic posted soon, and i'm still working on the other request!

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[lil-binuu]

do you think they did

[lil-binuu]

NOT TO MENTION ELIAS REMEMBERS THEM AS BEING SO IN LOVE THEY WERE CRINGY TO LOOK AT, AND THAT HIS GOAL IN LIFE IS TO FIND SOMEONE HE LOVES SO MUCH THAT THE PEOPLE AROUND THEM WOULD CRINGE WHICH SHOWS HOW MUCH HE IDOLISED HIS PARENT’S LOVE FOR EACH OTHER.

THE FACT THAT THEIR LOVE COULDN’T STOP THEM FROM BEING TEARED APART AND IN THE PROCESS CAUSING ELIAS TO FEEL NEGLECTED SO HE WOULD ACT OUT FOR HIS FATHERS ATTENTION

AND THE FACT AFTER ALL THE DIVISION BETWEEN HIM AND HIS FATHER, ELIAS GAVE UP ON HIS DREAM TO JOIN THE ONE THING THAT WOULD NOT ONLY PUT HIS OWN LIFE IN RISK MANY MANY TIMES BUT ALSO MAKE HIM FACE THE REASON HIS MOTHER GOT KILLED ALL BECAUSE HE WAS SCARED OF LOSING HIS FATHER.

THE FACT THAT WARDEN LOST THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE AND THEN ROPED IN HIS ONLY SON INTO THE MESS THAT CAUSED HER DEATH EVEN WHILE KNOWING IT COULD AND MAYBE INEVITABLY WOULD GET THEM BOTH KILLED BECAUSE HE REFUSED TO ACCEPT THAT ELIAS ISNT FIT FOR THE GANG WORLD BUT HES THE ONLY PERSON LEFT THAT HE CAN TRUST AND ELIAS FOLLOWS HIS ORDERS, EVEN TO THE POINT OF KILLING PEOPLE.

AND AT THE END OF THE DAY TARA IS DEAD AND WILL NEVER COME BACK AND THE VIGILANTE GANG SHE WORKED SO HARD TO MAKE THE CITY SAFER IS NOW BECOMING OPPOSED BY THE PENANCE, WHO MAY WIPE OUT THE WRAITHS AND POSSIBLY THE WHOLE CITY IN A WAR.

I JUST REALIZED THAT WARDEN WAS A MORE KINDER AND LOVING MAN BEFORE TERRA DIED AND IT PROBABLY DESTROYED HIM AND CAUSED THE RIFF BETWEEN HIM AND ELIAS BRO IM NEVER GONNA BE THE SAME HE JUST MISSES HIS WIFE.

[zsakuva]

1.Elias' last name???

2. Is Elias' dad name actually warden or did he adopt it for the gang sake

3. Tara means star in hindi/urdu did you intentionally name her that or.???

I know it but I won't say it for now.

No, his title is Warden.

Nope, I just thought the name suited her.

[peppymintdreams]

Mommy’s little helper

Elias and Tara

The kitchen was filled with the comforting scent of vanilla and sugar, a warm haven in the heart of the house. Flour dusted the countertops, a bag of chocolate chips stood ready, and mixing bowls clattered softly as Tara pulled out the final ingredients.

“Alright, Elias,” Tara said with a smile, tying a small apron around her son’s waist. The apron was far too big for him, the ends trailing on the floor, but he beamed with pride as if he were the head chef. “Ready to help Mommy make cookies?”

Four-year-old Elias, with his messy mop of dark hair and wide, curious eyes, nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Cookies!”

Tara laughed and kissed the top of his head. “Okay, first, we need to mix the butter and sugar. Can you help me scoop it in?”

Elias climbed onto a chair, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the counter. His tiny hands reached for the spoon Tara handed him, and with careful concentration, he scooped a spoonful of softened butter into the mixing bowl. It plopped in with a satisfying thud.

“Good job, sweetheart! Now the sugar.”

Elias grinned, proud of his accomplishment, and grabbed the sugar scoop. This time, however, his hands weren’t as steady. A little too much sugar spilled onto the counter, but Tara didn’t mind. She ruffled his hair and said, “That’s okay. The cookies will just be extra sweet.”

“Like me!” Elias chirped, giggling.

“Exactly like you,” Tara said, chuckling as she began to cream the butter and sugar together.

Elias leaned closer, fascinated by the whirring sound of the mixer. “What next, Mama?”

“We add the eggs,” Tara explained. She carefully cracked one egg into the bowl and handed the next one to Elias. “Here, you try.”

Elias held the egg with both hands, eyes wide with focus. He tapped it gently against the edge of the bowl—too gently at first—until Tara guided him. “A little harder, baby.”

Crack! The egg broke open, and some of it made it into the bowl... while the rest dripped onto his fingers.

“Oops!” Elias gasped, looking up at Tara with big, worried eyes.

“It’s okay, love,” Tara reassured him, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “You did great. And messy hands just mean we’re having fun.”

Elias nodded, reassured, and soon the egg was forgotten as they added flour, a pinch of salt, and finally, the chocolate chips.

“Can I stir?” Elias asked, already reaching for the wooden spoon.

“Of course.” Tara handed it over, watching as he mixed the dough with all the strength his little arms could muster.

The spoon was bigger than him, and stirring the thick dough was no easy task, but Elias was determined. His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration, and Tara couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“You’re doing amazing, Chef Elias,” she praised, kneeling beside him.

“Chef Elias!” he repeated proudly. “I’m gonna make the best cookies ever!”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Once the dough was ready, Tara helped Elias scoop it onto the baking sheet. His cookie blobs were uneven and lumpy, but he clapped his hands in delight.

“They’re perfect,” Tara said warmly.

Elias grinned. “Perfect cookies!”

As the cookies baked, filling the kitchen with their sweet aroma, Elias sat on the floor with a toy truck, occasionally glancing at the oven. “Are they done yet, Mama?”

“Almost,” Tara said, sitting beside him. “Good things take time.”

Elias leaned against her, his little head resting on her shoulder. “I like making cookies with you.”

Tara wrapped an arm around him, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair. “And I like making cookies with you, my little chef.”

When the timer finally dinged, Elias jumped up, excitement bubbling over. Tara carefully pulled the tray from the oven, and the golden-brown cookies looked as perfect as they smelled.

“Can we eat them now?” Elias asked, bouncing on his toes.

“Not just yet. They’re hot.”

Elias pouted but then had an idea. “Can I blow on them?”

Tara laughed softly. “Sure, but we’ll wait just a little bit, okay?”

After what felt like forever to a four-year-old, the cookies cooled enough to taste. Tara handed Elias the first one, still warm and gooey.

He took a big bite, his face lighting up with joy. “Mmm! The best cookies ever!”

Tara smiled, savoring the moment. “Yes, Chef Elias. The best cookies ever.”

[soscarlett1twas]

well.

[lil-binuu]

cant keep this in my drafts forever 😩

jennie kim as tara

LIKEE???? AHSHSHHSHSHSHSHSHSH

also i remembered to spell her name right now 🥳

[lil-binuu]

i hc that James has like 5 dogs and 2 cats.

He definitely would have dobermans or german shepards (or both) as trained guard dogs but he would love them like children. He could just be doing anything but there will be 2 big dogs by his feet, 2 by the door and one practically in his arms or on his lap.

And of course he would have a cat to curl around his neck like a scarf while the other just hisses at anything and anyone and stares at him from a distance. The dogs would all sleep in one big pile with the cats squeezed right between them.

(one of the dogs is called Tallula and one of the cats is called Tara 💔)

[zsakuva]

hiiii hope you are well

i was wondering about warden, tara, james, isaac, asirel and vic’s morality (ik is a lot of people yiu don’t have to answer all of them 😭)

this is based on this chart i saw

cos we all know these people do a little crime ykwim

so while some of them may do some immoral things i don’t think they’re loose on their morality right?

i’d be interested to know what you think xx

thank u smmm

This is how I view them from left to right.

Grey = Vic

Green = Asirel

Blue = Isaac

Purple = James

Gold = Tara

Red = Warden

These aren't set in stone, and characters do change.

[zsakuva]

we NEED to know what Terra looks like! May we have a reference, pretty please?

I picture her looking something like this?

Also it's spelt 'Tara' huehue.

[zsakuva]

Hi hi,

What do you think Tara would’ve thought of barista and Elias saving them?

Would she have reacted the same way that Warden did?

thank you

I think Tara would've been more sceptical than Warden. She would think the worst of Barista and would take the 'guilty until proven innocent' approach.

[zsakuva]

1) Who are the most conventionally attractive characters?

2) Were Tara and Warden married?

3) What stuff would Warden and Tara do, infront of Elias? (I remember he said they were cringey together)

This is quite subjective.

Yes.

Kissing, talking about embarrassing stories. Warden was the type of husband who, if they were both free, would turn on some music spontaneously, take Tara's hand, and just start dancing with her.

[zsakuva]

did the wraiths only form after Elias was born? if so what age was he?

and also was the wraiths made by tara and james or was warden also involved in making it?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[zsakuva]

Hi Saku!!! I have some Elias family questions for you💪

1.What do you think James and Tara were like together??

2.Do you think warden or James would have seen or been told about Elias’ breakdown in 7.1? And if they did do you think they would be shocked that barista was able to calm him down so quickly??

Together, they were miscreants. Definitely a mischievous duo who liked to cause chaos every now and then, but it would be out of fun and not harm.

It's possible, but I say nothing.

[zsakuva]

If Tara were still alive do you think her and the warden would’ve had more kids??

Probably not.

[zsakuva]

was terra or james the older sibling?

Tara was the older sibling.