three
The house smelled like weed and Pine-Sol.
That was the first thing I noticed when I stepped in—backpack still clinging to one shoulder, hoodie damp with sweat, keys barely out of the door. The living room was dark except for the TV flashing muted commercials. No voices. Just static silence underneath the hum of a box fan pointed at nothing.
Chris was on the couch.
I didn't speak. Just dropped my keys into the bowl by the door and kept my head down.
It was a habit now. Shoulders relaxed, eyes low, mouth shut. Keep the energy neutral. Don't give him anything to respond to. The same way you move past a dog that's off-leash—don't run, don't stare, don't flinch.
I could feel him watching me anyway.
The air was thick. Not hot, but heavy. Like the walls knew something I didn't.
It used to smell like garlic and conditioner in here.
My dad would come home talking about something that happened at work, and my mom would yell at him to take his shoes off while she did her hair.
She used to light candles she never actually prayed over.
Yell about things that didn't matter. Laugh like it was muscle memory.
That version of her died when he did.
She didn't start spiraling overnight. It was little things. Less food in the fridge. A new man every few months. Her voice louder. Her patience shorter. The gloss on her lips got thicker, the heels higher. Eventually, even I couldn't tell what was work and what was just survival.
I walked toward the kitchen out of instinct. No one had started dinner. Not that I expected anything. My mom didn't cook anymore, not unless she was trying to impress a man or make a point.
The fridge was basically empty. A bottle of wine, a takeout box, some old eggs.
I wasn't hungry. Just needed something to do.
"You always come in here like somebody owe you something," Chris called out from the couch, voice lazy and slurred.
I didn't answer. Just poured a glass of water from the tap and stared out the window above the sink, even though it only looked out onto a patch of cracked concrete.
"You hear me?" he said again, louder this time.
Still, I said nothing.
"Is my mom yet?" I asked finally, over my shoulder.
He scoffed. "You see her car out front?"
I didn't respond. Just walked back toward my room, already counting how many assignments I still needed to finish before class tomorrow.
But he got up.
I heard the couch groan. The squeak of bare feet on the tile.
"You real grown now, huh?"
I turned. He was standing behind me now, just a little too close. One hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to act casual.
"You always got an attitude. That high school shit got you thinking you're better than everybody."
I didn't look at him directly. "I'm tired. I had a long day."
He chuckled.
Then, like it was nothing, he reached out and brushed a piece of lint from my sleeve. I flinched.
"Don't touch me."
His hand lingered in the air for a second. Then dropped.
"What you so jumpy for?" he said, trying to grin like this was some kind of joke. "I'm just being nice."
I stepped back.
He stepped forward.
"You know, you keep looking at people like that, you gonna make somebody think you want something."
I averted my eyes from his gaze and looked down stepping out his way.
Chris turned his head slightly. "You always this quiet?"
I paused at the hallway. "I just got home."
"Yeah," he said, scratching his stomach through a white tank top. "I seen."
I waited, not turning around.
"You don't like me, do you?" he asked, like he wanted a reason to be offended.
I swallowed. "I don't know you."
"You ain't tryin' to, either." He laughed, low and ugly. "Always walkin' around here like you better than everybody."
I finally turned. "No. I just stay out of the way."
"Yeah? Then why you keep starin'?"
"I wasn't."
"You were. Always lookin' at me like I did somethin' wrong." He took a step closer. "You know, you ain't a kid no more. I see the way you fillin' out you look just like your mother."
My throat dried. I moved one step back.
"Bet the boys at your little school be sayin' all kinds of things about you, huh?" He smirked. "Probably think they grown, too."
"Don't talk to me like that." My voice barely came out.
He took another step. "Like what? I'm just talkin'. You don't like compliments now?"
He stumbled back half a step, then smiled—slow, wolfish. Not like someone embarrassed. Like someone amused.
But it didn't reach his eyes.
"Feisty," he said, voice low. "You just like your mom."
I didn't answer. Just tried to walk around him again, keeping my eyes on the hallway behind him. Almost to my room.
But he stepped in front of me.
"What's up there in that room that's so important?" His tone twisted, like I was hiding something he deserved to see. "You always rushin' in there like it's Fort Knox."
I kept my eyes low. "I have homework."
He smirked. "You so polite when you scared."
I tensed.
"Come on, baby," he said, voice dipped in syrup that made my skin crawl. He reached again, pulling my sweater down my arm like he was unwrapping something meant for him. His thumb grazed my shoulder.
That's when I hit him.
Fist clenched. Reflex. Instinct.
The sound was louder than I expected—skin meeting skin, sharp and echoing in the stillness of the room. His head snapped to the side.
For a second, he didn't move. Didn't speak.
Then his jaw flexed.
"You little bitch," he said, grabbing the edge of the couch for balance.
I backed up fast, heart thudding so hard I thought it might crack something inside me. My hands were shaking now. I turned and ran—down the hall, into my room, slamming the door shut behind me and twisting the lock.
Silence.
Then his voice on the other side, lower now.
Dangerous.
"You better watch yourself, Amira. You ain't untouchable."
"I'll get my nieces to fuck you up," he laughed.
But I was already in my room.
He didn't try to break it down.
Didn't even knock.
But I could hear him. Pacing. Breathing heavy. Muttering curses under his breath like I was the one who crossed a line.
The floor creaked with each step until it didn't.
And then—
Silence.
The kind that makes your skin itch.
The kind that feels like it's watching you. I looked out my window to see him walking down the street.
I slid down the door, legs folding beneath me, arms wrapping tight around my knees. My cheek rested on fabric that still smelled like the bus, like sweat and old air and whatever perfume I'd sprayed that morning that didn't stand a chance against the day I'd had.
I didn't cry. Not yet.
I just sat there.
Waiting.
Waiting for the numbness to kick in the way it always did.
Like a slow freeze, starting at my fingers and working its way inward.
The room felt unfamiliar, even though everything in it was mine. The chipped dresser. The shoebox of letters from my dad. The books stacked in the corner.
Even the walls, once covered in drawings and flyers and color, felt gray now.
Faded.
I stared at the space under the door like something might slip through.
I don't know how long I sat like that—ten minutes, an hour, maybe longer. Time folds in on itself when you feel like nobody in the world would notice if you vanished.
Because that's how it felt.
Like I could disappear and not a single person would come looking.
Not Chris.
Not my mom.
Not anyone.
The part that hurt the most wasn't even what he did.
It was how sure I was that no one would care. Maybe that was worse.
I tilted my head back against the door and stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned.
I didn't pray. I didn't scream. I just existed.
Quiet and still and invisible.
And eventually—
Finally—
I felt it.
That slow, thick wave of nothing.
The cold that dulled everything else.
Numbness.
My oldest coping mechanism. I leaned into it.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
I stayed on the floor, knees pressed to my chest, long after the footsteps faded. My breath had slowed, but my thoughts kept sprinting.
What do I do?
Tell her?
Don't tell her?
You have to tell her.
But what if she doesn't believe me? What if she says I'm being dramatic, or that I must've done something to provoke it? What if she already knows the kind of man he is and just doesn't care?
I looked around my room. At the dresser missing half its knobs.
At the plastic bin where I kept my books.
At the one crooked photo of me and my mom at Coney Island the summer I turned twelve—before everything started to fall apart.
Before the silence between us became normal.
Before I had to squint to remember what she used to feel like when she hugged me.
A car pulled up outside.
I didn't move.
A door slammed.
Then heels on concrete.
The jangle of keys.
The front door opened. Slammed again.
I heard her sigh—long and drawn out, like the world was doing too much again.
Her voice floated through the house before I even opened the door. "Chris? You here?"
There was no call back in response from him.
I stood up slowly.
She was in the kitchen now. I could tell by the way the cabinet closed with a thud. The fridge door opened. Then nothing.
My feet felt like cinderblocks as I unlocked my door and stepped out.
I didn't move at first.
I just sat there, still pressed against the door like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. But the second I knew he was gone, my body started to shake—like all the adrenaline had been waiting for permission to flood in.
I got up slowly, legs stiff, palms sweating. I didn't even look in the mirror before I opened the door. I didn't need to. I already knew what I'd see—puffy eyes, twisted expression, the imprint of fear still clinging to my face.
My mom was in the kitchen.
"Ma," I said, voice hoarse. "Can we talk?"
She didn't look up right away. Just kept scrubbing a cup in the sink like it'd done something to her.
I stepped closer, heart beating so loud I could barely hear myself think.
"I need to tell you something."
That got her attention. Slowly, she turned, rag still in hand.
"Chris tried to touch me," I said. "He—he pulled on my clothes. Said some disgusting stuff. I told him to stop."
She blinked, like she was buffering.
For a second, I thought she was going to drop the rag.
Maybe even cry.
Instead, she scoffed. "Chris?"
"Yeah. He was here when I got home. And he—he wouldn't stop."
The door opened behind us.
The sound of keys and cheap cologne punched the air like a slap.
I turned. My whole body tensed like it had before the slap landed.
Chris stepped in like nothing had happened. His eyes met mine, then flicked to my mom.
"You left the back window open," he said. "It's raining."
My mom didn't say anything.
Just stared between us like we were two different stories she couldn't be bothered to read.
I looked at her. Begged her with my eyes. "You have to believe me. Please."
Her expression hardened. "You think I don't got enough shit to deal with already?" she snapped. "You think I need some teenage soap opera today, Amira?"
"Mom," I said only above a whisper. "I didn't make it up. I wouldn't lie about this."
She shook her head. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow.
Like she was disappointed in me.
"You're so damn ungrateful," she muttered. "This man helps pay the bills. Keeps a roof over your head. And you got the nerve to play victim?"
"I'm not playing anything," I said, tears now gathering at the back of my throat. "You weren't here."
"And you think you grown now, huh? Think you can just decide who stays and who goes?"
I went quiet.
Because yes. I did.
I thought maybe—just maybe—she would've picked me.
"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "You always acting like the world owe you something. Like I ain't break my back to raise you."
The first thing I noticed was her eyes.
They weren't the ones I remembered.
Not the sharp, fiery ones that used to gleam when she danced to old-school records while cleaning, or squinted with laughter when she'd gossip with Auntie Lena over wine.
These eyes were empty.
Like someone had scooped out whatever softness she had left and replaced it with smoke and bitterness.
She crossed her arms, back stiff. "If you don't like it here, then go."
I blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Pack your little shit and figure it out."
I stared at her.
At this woman who used to braid my hair and call me sweet pea and dance with me in the living room.
She was still here, but also... not.
I wasn't looking at my mother anymore.
Just a hollow shell of her.
Something grief and time had eaten alive from the inside out.
And still, even now, I held on. "Ma—please."
She looked at Chris.
He shrugged. Said nothing.
Didn't need to.
"You wanna act grown?" she said again, voice colder now. "Then be grown. Get the fuck out my house."
So I turned around.
Walked to my room in slow, steady steps—like if I moved too fast, I might fall apart.
I pulled my backpack from the back of the closet. It still smelled like lavender from the dryer sheets I used to sneak into the laundry when I was little, thinking it made my clothes feel fancier.
I packed what I could.
A hoodie.
My toothbrush.
The locket my dad gave me.
No extras. No maybe-I'll-need-this-laters.
Just what I could carry.
I looked around once—at the chipped mirror, the corner where my posters used to hang, the spot on the floor where I used to sit and do my homework.
Then I left.
No door slam.
No dramatic exit.
No goodbye.
She made the choice.
I just followed it out.