I came home from Jasmine's house in fear that Mother would catch me, but to my surprise, the house was eerily silent. Usually, I could hear her yelling at the television or the clink of bottles in the sink. But this time, the only sound was the creak of the door as I pushed it open, the hinges groaning like they carried the weight of the silence within.

The living room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight spilling through the window, casting long, ghostly shadows on the walls. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of stale alcohol and something faintly sour, like spoiled food. I hesitated on the threshold, my hand gripping the doorknob tighter than necessary. The silence pressed against my ears, unnatural and oppressive. I stood there for a moment, waiting for a sound-a cough, a muttered curse, the scrape of a chair-but there was nothing.

"Mom?" I called, my voice a weak thread cutting through the stillness. It barely sounded like my own.

No answer.

I stepped inside and shut the door softly behind me, the click of the latch unnervingly loud in the quiet. My bag slid from my shoulder and landed with a muffled thud by the door. Each step I took felt amplified, my footsteps echoing against the worn hardwood floors like accusations. The coffee table was cluttered with empty bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. A faint layer of ash dusted the table's surface, like the remnants of a fire long extinguished. The blanket on the couch lay crumpled, its folds resembling the ghost of a body that had once been there. I pressed my hand against the cushions. Cold. She hadn't been here for hours, maybe longer.

I moved to the kitchen next. The light above the stove buzzed faintly, its flicker painting the room in uneven flashes. The fridge door was ajar, a sliver of dim light escaping from within. I pulled it open wider, revealing the sad state of its contents: a carton of milk, its expiration date long past, a lonely jar of pickles, and a single can of beer. The smell hit me immediately-a sour mix of spoiled food and neglect. The counters were sticky with dried spills, their surfaces grimy to the touch. The sink was a battlefield of dishes, crusted with layers of forgotten meals. I closed the fridge and wiped my hand on my jeans, a futile attempt to shake off the lingering stickiness.

She wasn't here either.

My chest tightened as I moved through the rest of the house. The hallway stretched before me, dim and uninviting. The doors to the bathroom and the spare room stood ajar, their interiors dark and undisturbed. Her bedroom door was open, the space beyond it a chaotic mess of unmade sheets and clothes scattered across the floor. The smell of her perfume lingered faintly in the air, mixed with the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. The closet door was slightly ajar, revealing empty hangers where a few of her coats should have been. My heart sank. She had disappeared before, but this felt different-more deliberate. I told myself she'd be back soon, that she was probably out at some bar or with one of her so-called friends. But the knot in my stomach tightened, stubborn and unrelenting.

I returned to the living room and sank onto the couch, the crumpled blanket pulling me down with its weight. I stared at the blank television screen, its black surface reflecting a distorted version of the room. The house felt too big, too empty, its silence a living thing that crawled over my skin. I thought about going back to Jasmine's, about knocking on her door and asking to stay just a little longer. But I didn't want to wear out my welcome. Besides, this was my reality. Running wouldn't change that.

I curled up on the couch, wrapping the blanket around me like a shield. The fabric smelled faintly of her-a mix of her perfume and something sour that I couldn't place. Exhaustion weighed on me, pulling me into restless dreams filled with fragmented images. I saw her stumbling through the door, her voice sharp and slurred, her movements unsteady. But every time I reached for her, she dissolved into the shadows, leaving only the echo of her voice and the emptiness of the house.

When I woke, the room was still cloaked in darkness, the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the window. My heart ached with the weight of unanswered questions. Where had she gone? And more importantly, would she come back this time?

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside the window. Their cheerful melodies were out of place, almost mocking the heavy silence inside the house. For a fleeting moment, I forgot where I was, the weight of the emptiness not yet pressing down on me. But as soon as I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, it came rushing back-the silence, the stillness, the overwhelming absence of life around me.

The faint smell of mildew mixed with the lingering scent of dust hung in the air, adding to the discomfort. I wandered into the kitchen, the cold floor sending a shiver through my bare feet. My stomach growled, but I already knew I wouldn't find anything. Still, hope pushed me to open the fridge. A rancid odor hit me as soon as the door cracked open, and I slammed it shut. The shelves were just as empty as they'd been the night before.

The house was like a cage that day, its walls closing in on me as I paced aimlessly. My phone sat on the counter, its screen dark and lifeless. I picked it up several times, scrolling through old messages, hoping for even a hint of connection, but there was nothing. By the afternoon, the ache in my stomach was unbearable, and the loneliness wrapped around me like a heavy blanket.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring out the window. The Carters' house loomed across the yard, its windows glowing with life. Through the open curtains, I could see shadows moving, hear faint voices and bursts of laughter. It was a world away from the emptiness surrounding me, and the ache in my chest was worse than the hunger in my stomach.

By the third day, I couldn't take it anymore. The house felt like a tomb. The air inside was thick, stagnant, and the silence was so loud it was maddening. My hands shook as I threw on my shoes, my heart racing as I bolted out the back door. The cool air hit my face like a slap, but I didn't stop until I was at Jasmine's house.

Jasmine opened the door before I could even knock, her bright smile chasing away the dark clouds inside me. Her eyes lit up as if she'd been expecting me all along. "Emily! You're just in time. Mom's making meatloaf."

The mention of food was enough to make my knees weak, and despite everything, I managed a smile. "I'm starving," I admitted, my voice shaky.

Jasmine grabbed my hand, pulling me inside. "Good thing you're here. Mom's been talking about you all day."

Their home was warm and inviting, the scent of spices and roasting meat filling the air. The faint sound of jazz played in the background, mingling with the hum of conversation from the next room. It was the polar opposite of my house. Here, everything felt alive. I felt alive.

Mrs. Carter turned from the stove when we entered, her face breaking into a welcoming smile. "Emily! You're just in time, sweetheart. Go wash up; dinner will be ready in a few minutes."

I nodded, slipping down the hall to the small bathroom. The mirror over the sink reflected a pale, tired face with shadowed eyes. I splashed cold water over my skin, letting the sensation pull me back to the present before drying my hands on a soft towel.

When I returned to the kitchen, the table was set with mismatched plates and a jug of sweet tea at the center. The smell of meatloaf, buttery mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables was so mouthwatering that my stomach growled audibly. Jasmine smirked and nudged me playfully as I took my usual spot next to her.

Mrs. Carter placed a heaping plate in front of me, her kindness so casual it made my chest tighten. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the clatter of silverware.

"You're always welcome here, sweetheart," she replied, her voice warm and reassuring. "You're family, you know that."

The words hit me like a tidal wave, and I had to focus on my plate to keep the tears at bay. The first bite of food melted in my mouth, the flavors so rich and comforting that they almost brought me to tears again. Around me, the Carters laughed and joked, their voices blending into a symphony of warmth and love.

For the first time in days, the emptiness inside me started to fade. I felt safe. I felt seen. And for a little while, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I thought.

After dinner, Jasmine and I retreated to her room. The warmth of the Carter home still lingered, like a comforting blanket that I wasn't ready to let go of. Her room was small but cozy, decorated with posters of distant places and colorful trinkets that hinted at dreams beyond our quiet little town. She rummaged through the closet, grinning as she pulled out an old board game. The corners of the box were frayed, the colors faded, but to Jasmine, it might as well have been treasure.

We spread the pieces out on the floor, the game board resting between us, and dove in. Laughter echoed through the room as we bent the rules and made up ridiculous strategies. For those few hours, my worries seemed to shrink. The ache in my stomach from too many skipped meals faded, replaced by the easy rhythm of our banter. Jasmine's jokes pulled me further into the moment, and I let myself laugh freely, a sound I hadn't heard from myself in weeks. The Carters' world was so different from mine-safe, vibrant, full of love-and I basked in it, afraid to think about what would come after.

As the hours slipped away and the sky outside her window turned a deep, inky blue, the weight of reality pressed back down. I couldn't stay forever. The warmth of Jasmine's room couldn't shield me from what waited beyond their door. With a reluctant sigh, I gathered my things and gave her a small smile, hoping it masked the heaviness in my chest.

"Thanks, Jazz. This was fun," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Anytime," she replied, her grin softening. Her eyes searched mine for a moment, like she wanted to say something more, but she didn't. Instead, she gave me a quick hug, and I left before the crack in my façade could widen.

The walk home was a stark contrast to the warmth I had just left. The streets were eerily quiet, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath my shoes. The shadows seemed longer, darker, as if they knew I didn't belong in the light. My house loomed ahead, a silent and lifeless figure in the darkness. The porch light was off, just as I had left it. The windows stared back at me, cold and unwelcoming.

Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the kind of silence that wrapped around your chest and squeezed. I dropped my bag by the door and glanced around, hoping for any sign that things had changed-that she had come back. But the house was exactly the same: dark, quiet, oppressive. It was as if time had stopped the moment I left.

I curled up on the couch, pulling a thin blanket around me, and stared at the ceiling. The plaster was cracked in places, forming jagged lines that reminded me of fault lines on a map. I traced them with my eyes, wishing they could lead me to answers. I willed myself to believe that any moment now, the door would creak open, and she'd walk in, carrying the scent of cold night air and a promise of normalcy. But the hours ticked by, and the silence remained unbroken.

Sleep came reluctantly, tugging me into its grasp with uneasy dreams. In them, I was always running-chasing shadows, calling out for her, but never finding her. The world around me blurred, and I awoke with a start, my heart racing. The first rays of dawn seeped through the cracks in the blinds, painting the walls in pale, lifeless light.

As I sat there, bleary-eyed and exhausted, a single thought crystallized in my mind: something had to change. I couldn't keep living like this, suspended in a state of waiting-waiting for love, for stability, for scraps of something that might never come. Jasmine and her family had shown me what life could be like, what it should be like. I wasn't ready to let go of that hope, no matter how fragile it felt.

I stood up, the blanket falling to the floor, and took a deep breath. The day stretched out ahead of me, uncertain and daunting, but it was mine to face. I didn't know what my next step would be, but I knew I couldn't let the darkness win. Not yet.

The fourth day began with a familiar ache in my stomach and the weight of unanswered questions pressing against my chest. The house was unnervingly silent, every creak of the old wood amplified by the absence of voices. My mother was nowhere to be found, and the quiet had grown oppressive, wrapping around me like a damp shroud.

I tried not to think about the possibilities. Maybe she'd decided not to come back at all this time. Maybe the strain of everything-her life, me, the endless cycle of running from one failure to the next-had finally pushed her too far. Or maybe she was just passed out drunk in some stranger's apartment, like she'd been before. Each possibility pricked at my thoughts like needles, and I couldn't decide which one scared me more.

The morning passed slowly. I lay in my bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, watching as the faint sunlight danced along the spiderweb of fractures. The plaster seemed to crumble more each day, flakes catching the light before drifting to the floor like dying moths. The leaks from the last storm had left dark, blooming stains, evidence of neglect that mirrored the state of the house itself: a fragile shell barely holding itself together. Kind of like me.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine something better-a place where the walls didn't threaten to cave in, where the air didn't smell like mildew and regret. But the hollowness in my stomach kept dragging me back to the present, to the reality of hunger gnawing away at me like a relentless beast. I knew there was almost nothing left in the fridge. I'd checked it so many times that I could see the empty shelves in my mind, mocking me with their barrenness.

By mid-afternoon, desperation clawed at me. Hunger turned sharp, like a knife twisting in my gut, and the thought of enduring another night in this suffocating house made my chest tighten. I stood, brushing plaster dust from my shirt, and wandered over to the window. Outside, the world seemed brighter, more alive-a cruel contrast to the suffocating stillness inside.

The Carters' porch was a hub of motion. Mrs. Carter sat in her rocking chair, her hands deftly shelling peas into a large bowl. Jasmine, swept the steps with steady, practiced movements, her loose curls catching the light as they bounced with each sweep. The hum of a distant radio mingled with the soft murmur of their voices, punctuated occasionally by laughter. The melody was unfamiliar, but its lilting rhythm carried a strange comfort. Their world seemed so full, so vibrant-like something out of a dream.

I tore my gaze away, feeling the sting of envy creep into my chest. I shouldn't go back. I'd already spent too much time there, lingering like an unwanted shadow, silently pleading for scraps of normalcy. The Carters had been kind-more than I deserved-but I didn't want to impose any more than I already had. And yet, the thought of staying here, in this lifeless house with its empty cupboards and unanswered questions, was unbearable.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my shoes and slipped them on. The floorboards groaned under my weight as I made my way to the door, the sound echoing like a warning. I paused for a moment, my hand on the doorknob, as if the house itself were trying to hold me back. Then I pushed the door open and stepped into the sunlight.

The warmth of the afternoon wrapped around me, softening the edges of my fear. The walk to the Carters' house felt like crossing a bridge into another world-one where life still held its rhythm and hope wasn't a stranger. As I approached, Jasmine looked up from her sweeping, her face lighting up with a smile that made my chest ache.

"Hey, stranger," she called out, leaning on her broom. "Thought we'd scared you off."

Her words were light, teasing, but they carried a weight of their own-a reminder that someone had noticed my absence, that someone cared enough to say something. For the first time that day, I felt a flicker of something other than dread.

The air outside was warm the next day, the sun beating down on my back as I crossed the yard. My shoes kicked up little clouds of dust with each step, the earthy smell mingling with the faint scent of lavender from Mrs. Carter's flower beds. I knocked lightly on the Carters' door, my knuckles barely brushing the wood, half-hoping no one would hear me. But the door opened almost immediately, and there was Jasmine, her wide grin as welcoming as always.

"Hey, Emily! Come on in." She stepped aside, holding the door open, her hand lingering on the edge as though making sure I wouldn't bolt.

I hesitated, staring at the threshold like it was a bridge to some secret world I didn't quite belong in. But Jasmine tilted her head, her expression softening in silent encouragement. Swallowing hard, I stepped inside.

The house enveloped me in a rush of comforting scents-yeast and cinnamon, sugar and butter. It smelled like warmth, like love, like everything home was supposed to be but wasn't. My stomach betrayed me with a growl, loud enough to make Jasmine laugh.

"Sounds like someone's hungry," she teased, leading me through the narrow hallway into the kitchen.

Mrs. Carter was at the stove, her back to us, her movements efficient but unhurried as she stirred something in a large pot. She turned when she heard us enter, her face lighting up like the first golden rays of dawn. "Emily, it's good to see you again. Sit down, sweetheart. I just pulled some muffins out of the oven."

The table was already set with a small stack of plates and a platter of golden-brown muffins, their tops glistening with a sugary glaze. The sight made my mouth water, and my cheeks burned when my stomach growled again. I glanced down, embarrassed, but Mrs. Carter just chuckled. "Go on, help yourself," she said, sliding a plate in front of me and giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Thank you," I murmured, my voice as timid as a breeze. The words felt inadequate, too small to carry the weight of what I really meant.

I took a muffin, its warmth radiating through the napkin I used to hold it, and bit into the soft, sweet bread. It was perfect, like every meal I'd ever had here.

Jasmine plopped down beside me, snatching a muffin for herself and grinning as she bit into it. "So," she said, her voice casual, "what's up?"

I hesitated, the question heavy in the air. Words crowded my mind, clamoring for attention, but none seemed safe enough to say. Finally, I settled on the easiest lie. "Nothing much," I said, trying to sound light. "Just... needed to get out of the house for a bit."

Her eyes searched mine, her smile fading just slightly. For a moment, I thought she might call me out, but then she nodded, as if she understood anyway. "Well, you're always welcome here. You know that."

Her words hit me harder than they should have, like a gentle push that sent me teetering on the edge of something I couldn't name. I nodded, focusing on my muffin, chewing slowly to keep the lump in my throat from choking me.

It was always like this here. The kindness, the warmth, the way they made me feel like I belonged-it was overwhelming in the best way. But it also made leaving so much harder. I didn't want to think about going back home, to the silence, the cold, the spaces too full of things unsaid.

Mrs. Carter moved around the kitchen, humming softly as she worked, her presence a steady, calming force. The clock on the wall ticked gently, the sound mingling with the distant laughter of children playing outside. Jasmine was chatting about something now-school, maybe, or a show she'd been watching-but I couldn't focus on her words. I just let her voice wash over me, like a warm blanket I didn't want to let go of.

For a little while, I let myself imagine this was my life. A warm kitchen. A friend like Jasmine. A mother like Mrs. Carter.

And then I swallowed the thought, chasing it down with the last bite of my muffin. Because wishes like that didn't come true for people like me.

That evening, after dinner, Jasmine and I sat on the porch steps, the warm wooden planks beneath us carrying the faint scent of pine and the day's fading heat. Fireflies flickered lazily in the gathering dusk, their soft glow punctuating the gentle hum of cicadas in the distance. The sky, once streaked with fiery reds and oranges, had mellowed into deep purples and blues, and a lone star twinkled shyly above the trees.

Jasmine's voice carried over the quiet like a comforting melody. She told me about school, her words weaving a picture of her days spent in art class. She described her latest project-a vibrant watercolor of the wildflowers that grew by the creek behind her house-and how her teacher had praised her work, calling it "extraordinary for someone her age."

"I'm thinking about using brighter colors next time," Jasmine said, her eyes lighting up as she spoke. "Maybe something that pops, you know? Like those sunflowers your mom used to grow."

Her mention of my mom tugged at something deep inside me, but I shoved it down, letting Jasmine's excitement fill the spaces I usually tried to keep empty.

"You should come over more often," she said suddenly, her tone shifting to something more serious. She turned to look at me, her face soft in the dim light. "I mean it. You don't have to stay in that house by yourself."

The sincerity in her voice caught me off guard. My heart twisted in my chest, torn between the warmth of her words and the guilt that always seemed to follow me around. "I don't want to be a burden," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jasmine frowned, a crease forming between her brows. "You're not a burden, Emily. You're my friend. My mom loves having you here. We all do."

Her words wrapped around my heart like a protective cocoon, squeezing it in a way that both hurt and healed. I looked down at my hands, tracing the grooves of the porch with my fingers as I tried to find the right thing to say. "Thanks, Jasmine," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion.

She smiled, the kind of smile that felt like summer-warm, bright, and unshakable. Then she bumped her shoulder against mine, light and playful. "Anytime."

We sat there in silence for a while, watching the fireflies dance and listening to the faint rustle of the trees. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight pressing down on me didn't feel quite so heavy. It was still there, but Jasmine's presence made it easier to bear, like a single candle burning steadily in a dark room.

"Hey," she said after a while, her voice breaking the quiet. "Want to see the stars? We can grab a blanket and lie in the yard. My dad says it's going to be a clear night."

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Jasmine grinned and jumped to her feet, holding out a hand to help me up. As we headed inside to grab the blanket, I realized that maybe-just maybe-I didn't have to face the darkness alone.

When I finally made my way back home, the house was still dark. But this time, it wasn't empty. The faint sound of snoring came from the living room. I crept in quietly, my eyes adjusting to the dim light from the streetlamp outside.

My mother was sprawled on the couch, an empty bottle on the floor beside her and another clutched loosely in her hand. Her face was pale, her lips slightly parted as she snored.

I stood there for a moment, torn between anger and pity. This was the woman who was supposed to take care of me, who was supposed to be my mother. But all she'd ever done was let me down. Still, I couldn't bring myself to hate her completely. Not when she looked so broken.

The smell of alcohol hung in the air, sharp and familiar. It clawed at memories I didn't want to face-nights like these when I'd wait for her to stumble home, pretending to be asleep so I didn't have to explain why there was no dinner or why the lights had been turned off again.

Sighing, I bent down to pick up the bottle and set it on the coffee table. Then I grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over her. She didn't stir, but for a moment, her lips twitched, and I wondered if she was dreaming.

As I climbed the stairs to my room, I felt the familiar weight settle back onto my shoulders. The Carters' house was a refuge, a place where I could breathe. But it wasn't my home. This was. And no matter how much I wished otherwise, I couldn't escape it. Not yet.

Upstairs, the hallway stretched before me, long and shadowed, each step creaking beneath my feet. The house felt emptier than ever, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself imagine what it might be like to leave. To run. To find a place where the weight wasn't so heavy.

But that thought, like so many others, was fleeting. I turned the knob to my bedroom door, the chipped paint cool against my palm, and stepped inside. The quiet enveloped me, familiar but unwelcome. This was my space, my sanctuary, but even here, the memories lingered like ghosts I couldn't quite shake.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the moonlight spilling through the window. Somewhere, out there, was a life that didn't feel this heavy. A life I wanted so desperately to find.

But for now, I stayed. Because someone had to pick up the bottles. Someone had to make sure the blanket didn't slip off. And for some reason, that someone was always me.