Xavier Pov:
Nights were usually easy.
I liked them because they didn't ask for anything. No expectations. No performances. Just silence—something I could control.
My room was dark except for the glow of my phone, the city humming through the open window like white noise. I lay back on my bed, hands folded behind my head, staring at the ceiling like it owed me something.
It didn't.
I'd already showered. Already eaten. Ignored three group chats without a second thought. Still, something felt off.
I hated that.
I checked my phone again out of habit, not interest. Notifications stacked. Messages waiting. None of them mattered.
The phone buzzed anyway.
I exhaled through my nose, annoyed more than curious.
I wasn't supposed to feel anything tonight. Today had gone exactly how it should have—routine, forgettable, controlled.
So why couldn't I shut my brain up?
I rolled onto my side, jaw tightening. I didn't like disruptions. Didn't like things I couldn't label and move past.
Tomorrow would fix it.
It always did.
And if it didn't—then I'd make it.
Jax: You bounced early. Everything good?
I typed a reply. Deleted it. Locked my phone and tossed it onto the bed like the conversation wasn't worth finishing.
Everything was fine.
It always was.
And yet—my mind kept circling back to the same image, uninvited and persistent.
A girl walking beside me without trying to impress me.A girl who talked back without raising her voice. A girl who didn't look relieved when I walked away.
I scoffed under my breath. "She's exhausting."
Saying it out loud was supposed to make it stick.
It didn't.
I rolled onto my side, jaw tightening as irritation settled deeper. I hated disruptions. Hated things I couldn't categorize, control, and discard without effort.
People were simple. Patterns were easy. This shouldn't have mattered.
Tomorrow would reset everything. A new day.
It always did.
Still, sleep came slower than it should have—and I didn't like that either.
...
Aylia Pov:
Casey noticed before I said anything.
She always did.
I was at the sink, washing dishes I'd already cleaned once, when she leaned against the doorway. Arms crossed. Head tilted. That look that meant she'd been watching me longer than I was comfortable with.
"You're scrubbing like the plates did something to you," she said.
"I'm cleaning," I replied.
"Yeah," she said. "Aggressively."
I paused, water still running over my fingers. "Long day."
She didn't move. "Did something happen at that school?"
"No."
She waited. She was good at that.
I shut off the faucet. "It's just… a lot."
Casey nodded slowly. "That's not a no."
I grabbed a towel, dried my hands more carefully than necessary. "I'm fine, Case."
She didn't smile. "You say that when you're not."
My phone buzzed on the counter, cutting the moment short.
Denver calling…
My chest tightened before I even picked it up.
"Hey," I said.
"Aylia," Denver's voice came through warm, familiar, stretched thin by distance. "First day. How bad was it?"
"It wasn't bad," I said, leaning back against the counter. The moment I stopped standing straight, exhaustion settled in. "Just… different."
He laughed quietly. "That's the school with the gates and tuition that could fund a small country, right?"
"Still has the gates," I said. "Still absurd."
Casey climbed onto a chair, pretending not to listen.
Mom appeared in the hallway, slowing when she heard Denver's voice. She smiled—the kind she used when she didn't want to worry anyone.
"You eating?" Denver asked.
"Yes," I said too quickly.
He sighed. "Aylia."
"I am," I said. "Just—later."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the distance between us.
"I sent money," he said. "It should be there tomorrow."
Mom shook her head immediately. "Denver—"
"I know," he said gently. "I know. Just let me help."
My throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Call me if anything is wrong," he added. "First days matter."
"I know."
The call ended too soon, like it always did.
The kitchen felt quieter after.
"You don't have to carry everything yourself," Mom said softly.
"I know."
But I still picked up the envelope from the counter. Folded it smaller in my hands, like that might change what it said.
Later, in bed, my body ached in places I didn't want to think about. I curled onto my side, phone loose in my grip, the day replaying in fragments.
A hallway.
A voice.
A look I hadn't asked for.
I shut my eyes.
Tomorrow would come too fast.
And somehow, I knew it wouldn't be quiet.
...
The bathroom light hummed softly as I brushed my teeth, my reflection staring back at me like it was waiting for reassurance.
"You're okay," I told myself. "You can do this."
The words felt fragile, but saying them mattered.
In my room, I pulled on an old T-shirt and leggings, the fabric worn thin from years of comfort. Before turning off the lamp, my gaze drifted to the photo on my dresser.
I picked it up carefully.
Dad stood in the middle of us, arm slung around Mom, smiling like the future had never scared him. I traced the edge of the picture, swallowing the tightness in my throat.
"First day went fine," I whispered. "You'd like the school. It's… big. A little intimidating."
I let out a small breath. "I was scared. Still am. But I didn't let it show."
The silence answered back, familiar and aching.
"I miss you," I said quietly. "I wish you were here to tell me I'm overthinking everything."
My fingers tightened around the frame. "I'm trying to be brave. For Mom. For Casey. For Denver." A pause. "For me."
I brushed my thumb over his smile. "I hope I'm doing this right."
Carefully, I set the photo back on the dresser.
"I'll take care of them," I promised softly. "Just like you did."
I turned off the light and slid into bed, the house settling around me like a held breath. As I curled onto my side, the weight in my chest eased just enough.
Tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.
So I closed my eyes—and chose to be ready.