Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Rule Number Eight of Adeline’s Guide to Overcoming Loneliness: Adeline, don’t be too hard on yourself.
In reality, your harshest critic is just a scared child who needs reassurance.
Speak to it kindly, and the annoying voice in your head will leave you alone.
Treat yourself like you would treat a friend.
If you really think about it, it’s like practice for the real thing.
I must look so drunk right now.
No, seriously. I’d be surprised if people don’t look at me in complete horror as they pass, the way I’m shuffling down this path.
Did my limbs suddenly get heavier?
Probably because I got absolutely zero sleep last night.
The idea of sleep seems impossible lately.
Hours at the café, followed by a relentless barrage of homework, and helping Mum.
Of course I’m drained, but you’d think I’d be used to it by now.
There was a time, though, when I had help. Back when Mum wasn’t so broken.
The truth is, the day Dad died, part of her died too.
We lost her that day too.
Sam says she was always “a mess”—her words, not mine. But so was Dad. So was Mason. I’m no fool; I knew they weren’t normal. I knew they were involved in shady things. I just never asked what.
But even so, Dad was a good man. At least, that’s what I choose to believe.
His absence left an ache so deep, I don’t think it’ll ever fade. And in the aftermath, Mum became, well… a shadow. That’s the simplest way to put it. Surviving, but not really living, so disconnected from the world that her “living” didn’t really count.
So, I took on the role of anchor. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. For my sisters, for my mother, for myself.
I try not to mind.
I try to shake off the fatigue and force myself to keep moving. But like always, my thoughts spiral back to money. I need more hours, more work. The ice cream shop shifts I had managed to secure were simply not enough to keep up with the bills. And the café wouldn’t be enough now that Sam was back.
Last night, I scoured job listings until my eyes burned… and truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have stopped if it weren’t for the computer dying.
I even considered working at a bar, a thought I never would have entertained before. Desperation is a cruel motivator, but it’s also necessary. For survival.
And yet, guilt gnaws at me, claws at my conscience. Why did I accept the food Bea and Lilia had brought me? How could I enjoy a good meal while my sisters went without? The question echoed in the depths of my being.
I should’ve left them the cake. They would’ve loved it.
Maybe I’ll consider it when they bother speaking to me. That was just completely unnecessary. They won’t even look at me.
The bus stop comes into view, I take a moment to catch my breath, leaning against the cool metal frame. For once, I’m actually on time. A small victory amidst the mess that is my life. The bus pulls up, and as I step aboard, my gaze locks onto a familiar figure.
It’s him.
Different hoodie, same cap and sunglasses combo.
He sits there, seemingly lost in his own thoughts as he stares out the window, his gaze distant and unreadable. My heart quickens despite myself, but I quickly shove the feeling down.
Our last interaction made it painfully clear he has no interest in me. Why waste energy on someone like him?
Besides, I’m way too exhausted to summon the energy for a conversation, let alone the nerve to reach out to him.
With a sigh, I make my way down the aisle. My weary body sinks into the worn cushion, and I lean my head against the cool glass, finally getting to close my eyes.
But then, I freeze, feeling the air shift as the cushion next to me dips.
Before I can process what’s happening, he sits down. Right next to me.
No. Way.
My eyebrows shoot up so high I’m fairly certain they’re halfway to my hairline. My mouth opens slightly in disbelief.
I probably look ridiculous, but I can’t help it. What is he doing?
“You always seem half asleep,” he says after a beat, voice low, almost bored.
I blink, startled. Does he really think I look that bad all the time? So much for becoming a better liar. That should be my New Year’s resolution. Nevertheless, there he is, calmly sitting beside me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The nerve.
I turn to him slowly, smiling despite myself. “Is that your version of ‘good morning’?”
“Wasn’t trying to be polite,” he replies, leaning his head against the back of the seat and stretching his legs.
Of course not.
I lean away slightly, uncertain if I should even respond. But my mouth moves anyway.
I stare out the window. “I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
He hums. “Or at all.”
I glance sideways at him but say nothing. The sunglasses make it impossible to tell if he’s even looking at me. Still, I feel the weight of his eyes scanning my face.
I let out a short breath, trying to push the heat rising in my chest back down. “Of course I sleep,” I mutter, more defensive than I mean to sound. And much more clipped than I would have liked.
“You have a fondness for lying,” he says, maddeningly calm.
I recoil slightly, caught off guard. My instinct is to argue, to deny the accusation. But every time I open my mouth to say something, I find myself unable to force any words out.
I look away, jaw tight.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he says suddenly.
The question punches the breath out of my lungs.
I stare. “From what?”
The silence stretches too long, long enough that I almost think he didn’t hear me.
But I know he did.
Yet he makes no move to elaborate.
I sigh, biting down the rising frustration. “Is this how you talk to everyone, or am I just special?”
“If it comforts you to believe you’re special, by all means—believe it.” He says flatly, not missing a beat.
And I don’t flinch.
I don’t roll my eyes or shoot back some sarcastic reply.
Instead, I almost nod.
Because he’s right.
Of course he’s right.
Some people just aren’t built to be noticed. Some of us are made for the quiet parts of the world. The overlooked, the in-between. Not remarkable. Not radiant. Just… there.
A background character in someone else’s story.
I’d come to terms with that a while ago.
A few years back, I even wrote a little guide on how to survive being alone. Just for myself. It was small—fit right in my jacket pocket. I filled it with notes, reminders, things I told myself on bad days.
I used to carry it everywhere. And then one day, it was gone.
I don’t remember much—just coming home from school and reaching into my bag to find it wasn’t there anymore.
I sigh and glance back at Kai, but he’s completely still.
He’s staring straight ahead again, posture slack, hand resting loosely on his trousers. And yet there’s something too still about him. Something unnaturally quiet. Absent.
Like a statue left on a moving bus.
Like watching someone fall asleep with their eyes open.
A strange chill travels up my spine, and I look away again.
The silence doesn’t feel heavy this time, I notice.
Just hollow.
***
One thing I’ve learned from being in this school for not even two days is that you can’t walk more than ten feet without hearing his name.
I hear it in stairwells, classrooms, even the bathrooms. It’s everywhere. In everyone’s mouths, in everyone’s minds.
And if it’s not being said, it’s being seen.
His name’s stamped across half the school. Trophy cases lined with plaques that practically glow. Academic awards, innovation prizes, some national something-or-other I don’t fully understand, all engraved with the same name in the same pretty font.
He’s won everything. Done everything. Built things most of us can’t pronounce, let alone understand. And the school, the whole damn school, can’t seem to get enough of it.
No one can compare to him. No one can even come close.
To the school, maybe even to the world, he’s more than just a boy.
He’s a legend.
It’s getting hard to pretend I haven’t noticed.
But there’s something about boys like that, the ones who shine too brightly, too easily, that doesn’t make me starry-eyed.
If anything, it unsettles me more than I’d like to admit.
My shoes squeak slightly against the polished floor as I round the corner.
And that’s when I see Berlin. She stands with Ava and Zia, a smirk curling her lips as she murmurs something. Her voice carries just enough for me to hear.
“Murderer.”
The word slices through me, sharp and cruel. My steps falter. I know exactly what she means. Of course I do.
I continue to walk, it seems as though the eyes of the entire school are trained on me.
Whispers follow my every step, amplified by the uneasy silence that fills the hallways.
It’s as if, in their eyes, I’m just a spectacle to mock and use till they’re bored.
I just need to wait till that day comes.
My hands tremble as I reach for the lock, trying to ignore the sensation of being watched.
That’s when I feel them watching me, and a chilling awareness sets off alarms in my head.
Christian Ryder, Liam Grey and Will Carson.
Leaning against the lockers, their gazes boring into me. Their eyes are sharp, and there’s an arrogance that sticks to them even now.
Reaching my locker, I swing open the metal door to get to my books. There, nestled among the textbooks and crumpled papers, lies a small, folded note. My breath catches as I pull it out, my fingers trembling.
Ask the bitches living with you.
What?
A cold shiver courses through my veins.
Who has placed this note in my locker? Why?
The accusation is as pointed as it is cryptic, which isn’t helpful in the slightest, since it leaves me with more questions than answers.
I glance around, searching for any signs of anything, but it’s just my luck that everyone seems to be looking in my direction anyway, so there’s no real way of telling clues from curiosity.