I knew I was treading on dangerous ground the moment I walked into Jasmine's house again, but it felt like the only place I could breathe. The moment the warm air enveloped me, carrying the aroma of freshly baked bread and the faint scent of lavender from the vase on the kitchen table, the knot in my chest loosened. Jasmine's family welcomed me with open arms, offering me a warm spot at their table and a brief escape from the suffocating reality next door.

I tried to push my mother's warnings out of my mind, but her venomous words still rang in my ears, stinging like the slap she'd delivered just days ago when she caught me here. I hadn't intended to defy her, not initially, but the Carters had a way of making me feel like I belonged in a way I never did at home.

That last confrontation was still fresh, the memory replaying in vivid detail. I had been sitting at the Carters' worn wooden kitchen table, a plate of homemade spaghetti in front of me. The sauce was rich and tangy, the noodles cooked to perfection. Mr. Carter had just told one of his corny jokes-the kind that made Jasmine roll her eyes but secretly smile-and we all burst into laughter. For a brief moment, I had let my guard down. I felt normal.

Then the front door slammed open with a force that shook the house. My stomach dropped, and the fork froze halfway to my mouth. My mother's voice, sharp and venomous, sliced through the laughter.

"Emily! Get your ass out of this house right now!"

The room fell silent. Mrs. Carter's kind smile vanished, replaced by a look of concern. She rose from her seat, her hands wiping nervously on her apron.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, her voice calm but cautious.

My mother stormed into the kitchen, her eyes wild and bloodshot. The stale smell of cigarettes and liquor clung to her like a second skin. "You're damn right something's wrong! I told her to stay away from you people!"

The venom in her tone made me cringe. Heat rushed to my cheeks as shame and anger tangled inside me, each emotion fighting for control. I wanted to sink into the floor, to disappear entirely.

Mrs. Carter didn't flinch. She stepped forward, her expression firm but composed. "I don't appreciate you coming into my home and speaking to us this way."

"Your home?" My mother let out a bitter laugh. "You're lucky the cops haven't shut this place down with all the racket you people make."

"Mom, stop!" The words tore out of me, my voice cracking. My fists clenched at my sides, the shame bubbling over. "It's not their fault-"

"You're coming home. Now." Her grip on my arm was iron, yanking me toward the door with such force I stumbled. I turned back to Jasmine, whose wide eyes glistened with unshed tears. She mouthed something-an apology or a plea, I couldn't tell-and I whispered, "I'm sorry."

The walk back to our house was a blur of anger and humiliation. My mother's grip on my wrist was iron, her fingernails biting into my skin, but I didn't dare pull away. Her silence was almost worse than her fury; it boiled beneath the surface, a ticking bomb waiting to explode. By the time we reached the house, my chest was tight, my breaths shallow.

The front door slammed shut behind us with a thunderous crack that echoed through the walls. Her grip finally released, and I stumbled forward, rubbing my wrist.

Then it began.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she screamed, her voice slicing through the air like a whip. She started pacing, her footsteps thudding against the worn wooden floor. "Hanging out with those... those people? Do you want everyone to think you're like them?"

Her words hit harder than I expected. Those people. I knew exactly what she meant. Jasmine and her family were different from us-they were welcoming, accepting, unbothered by the rigid rules and whispered judgments that governed every aspect of our lives.

The disgust in her voice lit a fire in my chest. "Like what?" I shot back, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "Kind? Happy? Normal?"

Her hand moved before I could react. The slap was a flash of heat and sound, a crack that left my cheek stinging and my vision blurred with tears. I staggered back, clutching my face.

"Don't you dare talk back to me," she hissed, her face inches from mine. I could see the anger in her eyes, a fury that seemed to burn with something deeper-fear, maybe, or shame. "You're not going back there. Ever."

I nodded mutely, swallowing the lump in my throat, but my heart screamed in protest. The air in our tiny living room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in as if they could sense my defeat. But deep inside, I made a silent vow. Jasmine's house was the only bright spot in my world, the only place where I felt like I could breathe. I wasn't going to let my mother take that away from me.

Now, sitting at the Carters' table once more, I tried to shake off the memory. The warmth of the room and the quiet hum of conversation wrapped around me like a blanket, soothing the raw edges of my emotions. The Carter home was everything ours wasn't: alive with laughter, comfort, and an easy kind of love that didn't demand anything in return.

Jasmine reached across the table and gave my hand a quick squeeze, her touch grounding me in the moment. Her eyes met mine, and for a second, it was as if she could see everything I was trying so hard to hide.

"You okay?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible over the clink of silverware and low chatter around us.

I forced a smile, even as my heart raced. "Yeah. I'm fine."

But I wasn't fine. I was playing with fire, and I knew it. If my mother found out I was here, the consequences would be unbearable. But in that moment, as the scent of freshly baked bread filled the room and Jasmine's hand lingered on mine, it didn't matter.

The risk felt worth it.

The neighborhood itself wasn't much safer than our house. Shootouts were a regular occurrence, the sharp crack of gunfire slicing through the nights and leaving an uneasy, almost reverent silence in their wake. Sometimes the echoes were so close, it felt like the walls themselves shivered in fear. The police were a constant presence, their cars parked haphazardly along the street, red and blue lights staining the faces of tired neighbors who had long since stopped answering their questions. The officers always looked just as worn out, their voices tinged with the frustration of knowing their questions would lead to nothing but shrugs and wary glances.

The chaos didn't seem to faze the Carters, though. They'd lived here for years and moved through the dangers like seasoned sailors navigating a familiar storm. Meanwhile, I flinched at every loud noise-a slammed door, a car backfiring, even the sudden laughter of teenagers hanging out on the corner. My nerves were raw, and my sense of safety felt like it had eroded into nothing but thin air.

My mother, on the other hand, thrived on the drama. She had an unrelenting need to insert herself into every situation, her nose twitching at the scent of conflict like a bloodhound on the hunt. A barking dog, a car idling too long, kids playing too loudly in the street-she called the police for it all. It didn't take long for the neighbors to start calling her "Karen" behind her back. I couldn't blame them. I felt the weight of their glares whenever I walked to the corner store or waited at the bus stop. Their muttered insults, sharp as broken glass, weren't meant for me, but I still carried them.

Living under my mother's shadow was its own kind of imprisonment. Her constant complaints made her a pariah, and by association, so was I. Walking down the street felt like stepping onto a stage where every pair of eyes burned with quiet judgment. I tried to make myself invisible, my head down and steps quick, but their stares always found me.

Despite the dangers, despite my mother's ever-tightening leash, I kept sneaking over to Jasmine's house. I had to. It was the only place where I could breathe. Most nights, I'd wait until my mother had passed out on the couch, the TV droning on about crimes too far away to concern her. The empty bottle of cheap vodka would tilt precariously in her lap, her snores heavy and punctuated by the occasional drunken mumble. Only then would I slip out the back door, the squeak of the hinges muted by my careful hands, and sprint across the yard to Jasmine's place.

Jasmine's house was a world away, even though it was just a few blocks down. Her family's warmth was tangible, the kind of heat that filled a room without the need for radiators. Her mom always greeted me with a smile and a plate of whatever was left from dinner. Her brothers treated me like one of their own, teasing me mercilessly one minute and shielding me from the neighborhood bullies the next. And Jasmine-she was my anchor. Her knowing smile when she opened the door, the way she always had a spot saved for me on her bed, made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I had a place where I truly belonged.

One night, as I sat cross-legged on Jasmine's bed, the air thick with the sweet scent of the lavender candle she always lit, the sharp pop-pop-pop of gunfire rang out nearby. My body froze instantly, muscles locking in place as my breath hitched in my chest. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst out of my ribcage.

Jasmine, on the other hand, barely flinched. She glanced toward the window, her expression unimpressed. "That's just the Jenkinses again," she said with a sigh, rolling her eyes like she was talking about a petty family argument rather than a shootout. "They always get into it on Fridays."

Her calmness both amazed and terrified me. "How do you live like this?" I whispered, my voice trembling. I felt like a child asking for reassurance that monsters weren't hiding under the bed, even though I knew better.

Jasmine shrugged, her face softening into a small, almost wistful smile. "You get used to it," she said simply. "Besides, it's not all bad. We've got each other, and that's what matters."

Her words hit me harder than I expected, and for a moment, I couldn't speak. I wanted to tell her how much that meant to me, how much she and her family had already done to make me feel less alone. But the words got stuck in my throat, tangled up in emotions I didn't know how to express. Instead, I nodded, hoping she could see the gratitude in my eyes.

Jasmine reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze, her fingers warm and steady against mine. In that small gesture, she said everything I couldn't.

And in that moment, despite the chaos outside, I felt safe.

It didn't take long for my mother to catch on to my late-night escapes. One evening, as I crept back into the house, the familiar creak of the front door hinge betraying me, I found her waiting in the living room. The dim overhead light cast long shadows across the walls, and her silhouette stood rigid, like a storm ready to break.

Her face was flushed with anger, veins visible at her temples. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, trembling slightly. "Where the fuck have you been?" she demanded, her voice low but vibrating with fury.

I froze, caught in the act. My heart pounded in my chest as I scrambled for an excuse. "Nowhere," I said, my voice shaky and unconvincing.

"Don't you dare lie to me, Emily." She stepped closer, her presence suffocating. The faint scent of whiskey on her breath stung my nose. "You've been at their house again, haven't you?"

Her words hit me like a slap, and my throat tightened. I didn't answer, but my silence betrayed me. Her eyes narrowed, the fire in them burning hotter. Before I could react, her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. Her grip was tight, her nails digging into my skin, sending a sharp jolt of pain through me.

"I told you to stay away from them!" she shouted, her voice cracking with the intensity of her rage. "Do you want to end up like your father? Gone, because he couldn't keep himself out of trouble?"

Her words cut deeper than any slap ever could, reopening wounds I thought I'd learned to live with. I pulled my arm free, her nails leaving faint crescents on my skin. My chest felt heavy with the weight of her accusations, her anger, and the years of resentment that had built between us. I couldn't stop the tears that pricked my eyes as I stumbled back, desperate to put distance between us.

"You don't understand anything," I choked out, my voice cracking. "They care about me. They... they make me feel safe."

"Safe?" she sneered, her laugh sharp and cold. "You think you're safe there? They're just like your father's friends-liars, thieves, and trash. You'll see, Emily. You'll see what happens when you keep disobeying me."

I didn't wait to hear what she'd say next. I turned and bolted up the stairs, my feet pounding against the worn wood. Behind me, I could hear her shouting, her words blurring together in a toxic cocktail of threats and insults. I slammed my bedroom door shut and leaned against it, my whole body trembling. The thin wood did little to muffle her voice, but I pressed my hands over my ears, willing the sound to disappear.

Collapsing onto my bed, I buried my face in the pillow, my sobs muffled but uncontrollable. My mother's words echoed in my mind, each one a dagger to my heart. I hated her. I hated this house, this neighborhood, this life. But most of all, I hated how powerless I felt-how she could rip away the one thing that made me feel whole.

The room was dark, the cracked ceiling staring back at me like a map of my fractured world. I traced the jagged lines with my eyes, trying to calm the storm raging inside me. Slowly, the sobs subsided, replaced by a cold determination. I couldn't let her control me. I wouldn't.

As I lay there, a silent promise formed in my mind, solid and unwavering. No matter what she said or did, I wouldn't stop going to Jasmine's. I needed them, and they needed me. In this broken, violent world, we had to hold onto the good things-no matter the cost.

The next day, I was determined to go back to Jasmine's house, consequences be damned. I waited for my mother to head to the corner store-her usual excuse to disappear and replenish her stock of cheap alcohol. Once the door clicked shut behind her, I grabbed my shoes and slipped outside. The warm summer air pressed down on me, thick and heavy, as I hurried across the dry grass of our yard. Each step felt like a gamble, my eyes darting to every window, every shadow. Would someone see me? Would they tell her?

My heart pounded as I reached Jasmine's door. When I knocked, she opened almost instantly, as if she'd been waiting for me. "Emily," she said, her face lighting up with a grin as she pulled me inside. "You came back."

"Of course," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.

The tension in my chest eased the moment the door closed behind me. Inside, Jasmine's house smelled like cinnamon and lemons, the air cool from an old box fan humming in the corner. Her room was a sanctuary-walls lined with posters of musicians and art she'd drawn herself, the soft glow of string lights making everything feel golden.

We sprawled across her bed, talking and laughing until our sides hurt. Jasmine had this way of making me forget the rest of the world, her energy infectious and her smile warm. She pulled out a stack of old records, handling them like treasures. "These were my grandpa's," she said, flipping through the collection. "He had amazing taste."

She carefully placed one on the turntable, and soon, the room was filled with the crackling melody of an old jazz tune. The sound was warm and rich, each note a balm for my frayed nerves. Jasmine tapped her fingers in time with the beat, swaying slightly as she sang along. Her voice was soft and sweet, weaving perfectly with the music. For the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself relax, sinking into the moment as if it could last forever.

When the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the room in hues of amber and pink, Mrs. Carter called us down for dinner. Jasmine grabbed my hand and led me to the kitchen, where the scent of fried chicken and spices made my stomach rumble. The table was small but inviting, every inch of it covered with bowls of greens, cornbread, and mashed potatoes.

"Sit, sit," Mrs. Carter urged, her warm smile making my chest ache. She handed me a plate, her hands gentle and steady. "You're always welcome here, Emily."

I hesitated, my throat tightening with emotion. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible. My fingers trembled as I picked up my fork, the kindness in her words threatening to undo me. But I couldn't let myself cry. Not here, not now. I didn't want to ruin this perfect moment.

Dinner was unlike anything I'd experienced at home. The Carters talked and laughed, their voices a comforting hum around me. Jasmine's brother cracked jokes while Mr. Carter told stories about his own childhood. I stayed mostly quiet, absorbing the warmth of their family.

After dinner, Jasmine and I took to the porch, settling onto the worn wooden steps. Fireflies blinked in the fading light, their soft glow like tiny stars scattered across the yard. The usual tension of the neighborhood seemed to lift, replaced by a rare and fragile calm. Jasmine leaned back, propping herself up on her elbows, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

"You know," she said after a while, her voice soft, "no matter what happens, you've got us. We're your family, too."

Her words wrapped around me like a hug, both comforting and bittersweet. I turned to look at her, my chest tightening. "Thanks, Jasmine. That means more than you know."

She smiled, and we sat there in silence, listening to the hum of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog. The streetlights flickered on, casting pools of light onto the pavement. For a moment, it felt like the world had paused, giving us this sliver of peace to hold onto.

I knew I'd have to go back next door eventually, back to the shouting, the bottles, the chaos. But for now, I let myself be here, with her, in a place that felt like home. No matter what my mother said or did, no matter how hard things got, I had this. I had Jasmine.