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The laughter from the mall still echoed in my head when I got home.

For a few hours, I'd been free—just Emily, just a normal girl goofing off with her best friends, arguing over glitter sunglasses and coat hanger birds.

But the second I stepped through the front door, that freedom snapped.

The weight of everything I was hiding came crashing back down.

Mom was waiting in the kitchen.

She looked up the moment I walked in—arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

She knew I'd gone to the mall. I had answered her call, told her where I was.

But from the way she was watching me now, I knew this wasn't about where I'd been.

This was about everything else.

"Emily."
I froze, my backpack halfway off my shoulder.
Mom nodded toward the table. "Sit."
My stomach twisted.

I tried to keep my expression neutral, casual, like I wasn't completely unraveling inside. I slid into a chair, clutching the strap of my backpack tighter than I meant to.

Mom sat across from me, her eyes locked on mine—not angry, not yelling.
Just... tired. Worried.
That was somehow worse.

She exhaled slowly. "I know you had fun with the girls today. I'm glad you laughed. You needed that."
I blinked.
That wasn't what I expected her to say.

"But when you answered my call earlier," she continued, "I could still hear it in your voice. Something's not okay, Emily. And I'm done pretending I don't see it."

"I'm fine," I said, my voice sharp before I could stop it.

Mom raised an eyebrow. "Emily."

"I am!" I snapped, louder this time. "Why does everyone keep asking me that like I'm just going to suddenly spill my guts and cry in your lap or something?"

Her face didn't change. Not much. But I saw the flicker in her eyes.

"Because you're not fine," she said quietly. "You haven't been for a while."

"I'm just tired, okay?" I snapped again, heat rising in my chest. "School's been a lot. Life's been a lot. That doesn't mean something's wrong."

She leaned forward. "Then why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not!" I shouted, standing up so fast the chair legs scraped the floor. "God, why do you keep pushing? You say you want to help, but all you're doing is making it worse!"

Mom's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't raise her voice. "Emily—"

"No!" I said, cutting her off. "You keep acting like you know what's going on, but you don't! You don't know anything!"

I was breathing hard, fists clenched at my sides, trembling. I hadn't meant to yell. I hadn't meant to say all that.

The silence after was deafening.

Mom stood slowly, walking over to me—not angry, not even defensive. Just... calm.

She reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. "You're right. I don't know. Because you won't let me."

I shrugged.

"If you won't talk to me... will you talk to someone? Dr. Hart? Jasmine or Mia?"

"I talk to them," I said. And that part was true.

"Really?"

I nodded, trying to sound convincing. "They've been there for me."

She watched me for a long moment. So long I almost broke the silence myself.

Finally, she leaned back in her chair.

"Okay," she said softly. "I won't push."

But the way she said it told me everything.

This wasn't over.

She knew something was wrong.

And sooner or later—whether I was ready or not—she was going to figure it out.

It was dinnertime.

Mom had made her homemade pot roast—the kind that slow-cooked all day until the meat practically melted, seasoned with garlic, onion, rosemary, and a little bit of something else she never told us but always got just right. The whole house smelled like comfort. Like home.

But not tonight.

Tonight, everything felt... off.

I sat between Sam and Lily at the table, staring down at my plate like it had done something to offend me. My stomach felt knotted, tight and stubborn. I hadn't said a word since the fight.

Not to anyone.

But especially not to Mom.

She moved around the kitchen like everything was normal, setting the gravy down, passing out the rolls, asking Lily to use her napkin and not her sleeve. Her voice was calm, maybe even too calm—like she was trying not to step on anything fragile.

I didn't look at her. Not once.

Sam was busy going on about his soccer practice, and Lily was humming some little tune while stacking carrot sticks on the edge of her plate like a tower. Dad asked questions here and there, throwing in the occasional laugh, but it all felt like background noise. Muffled. Distant.

I picked at the food. A bite of mashed potato. A single carrot. I barely touched the roast.

Normally I'd have cleaned my plate and asked for seconds, especially if there were still warm rolls on the table. But tonight, the food tasted like nothing. Like chewing air.

Mom sat across from me. I could feel her watching every few minutes, even though she pretended not to.

She didn't ask me how I was.

Didn't try to talk to me.

And I didn't give her a reason to.

I kept my eyes down. I didn't speak. I didn't meet her gaze when she passed the butter or nudged the plate of biscuits in my direction. I just sat there, stiff and quiet, like I was made of glass and one wrong word might crack me wide open.

It wasn't about being mad anymore.

It was about not knowing what to say.

About feeling like if I started talking again, everything would spill out—and I wasn't ready for that.

Not yet.

So I stayed silent.

Mom didn't push.

But I knew she was still waiting.

And even though she never said it out loud...

She noticed.

She always noticed.

As soon as everyone started clearing their plates, I pushed back from the table, grabbing my glass like it gave me an excuse to leave.
"I'm tired," I muttered. "I'm going to my room."

I didn't wait for anyone to say anything, just turned toward the hallway—
But Mom's voice stopped me.

"Emily."

I froze.

Not loud. Not angry. Just my name.

I turned just enough to see her still sitting at the table, her hands resting gently on the edge of her plate, her eyes fixed on me.

"Can we talk for a minute before you go upstairs?"
I clenched my jaw. "I said I'm tired."
"I know," she said calmly, "but that doesn't mean we ignore what happened earlier."
I laughed under my breath—cold, hollow. "Oh, so now you want to talk? After staring at me through dinner like I was some fucking science project?"

Dad glanced up from gathering dishes. His brow furrowed, but he didn't say anything. Yet.

Mom didn't flinch. "I've been trying to give you space—"

"No, you've been watching me like I'm broken and just waiting for the pieces to fall apart!" I snapped.

That got Dad's attention.

"Hey," he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he turned to face me. "Watch your tone young lady, and watch your language, too. I don't care how upset you are—this is still our home, not a place to throw around that kind of talk."

I didn't care. Not in that moment. I was already too far in, already unraveling.

"I am watching it," I snapped back, my voice cracking. "I'm watching every goddamn second of it! Every word I say, every step I take, every bite I don't eat—because she's always watching me like I'm gonna break apart and spill all over the floor!"

"That's not what this is," Mom said, her voice tightening. "I'm worried about you, Emily. That's all. You won't talk to me. You barely eat. You barely sleep. What am I supposed to do?"

"You're supposed to leave me the hell alone!" I shouted.

The room went still.
Even Sam and Lily stopped talking in the other room.

Dad stepped in now, voice firmer. "Enough."

But I couldn't stop. The words just kept coming, like they'd been trapped for too long and finally broke loose.

"You all act like you give a damn, but no one actually listens! You just sit there pretending everything's fine, like I didn't blow up at Mom earlier, like I'm supposed to play nice at dinner and pretend nothing's wrong!"

"Because we're trying not to make it worse," Dad said, crossing his arms. "But this—this attitude—isn't helping anybody."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said bitterly. "Am I ruining your precious dinner? Maybe I should've just disappeared like I always want to so you can all pretend I'm fine and keep living your perfect little lives."

Mom stood now, her expression cracking—hurt, worry, guilt all tangled together. "Emily, no one thinks this is perfect. No one is pretending. But you can't just shut us out and expect us not to care."

I shook my head, blinking too fast. My throat burned. My chest felt like it was caving in.

"I didn't fucking ask you to care," I said, barely above a whisper.

Dad took a breath like he was about to say something else—but I didn't wait.

I turned and stormed down the hallway, my footsteps echoing on the wood floor. Everything blurred—the pictures on the wall, the hallway lights, the sound of Mom calling after me but not following.

I reached my room and slammed the door.

I didn't lock it.

Didn't need to.

The light through the window was dull and gray, the kind of light that made everything feel heavier. I stood in the center of my room, fists clenched, heart pounding.

Then I collapsed onto the bed.

No crying.

No sleeping.

Just that same, familiar silence. The one that used to feel safe.

Now it just felt loud.

The voices downstairs returned, muted. Plates clinking. Water running. Lily asking about dessert like nothing had just shattered at the dinner table.

But it had.

And no matter how much I wanted to pretend I could disappear...

I couldn't.

Because now they knew.

They all knew.

And the silence I used to hide behind?

It wasn't enough anymore.

The house had gone quiet.

Not just quiet—still. Like everyone was afraid to move too much, to say the wrong thing, to stir the air that still felt thick from the argument.

I lay curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling, the room dim with the last hints of dusk. The silence wasn't comforting. It pressed in like a weight, heavy and unrelenting.

I tried to stay still. To pretend I didn't care. But the truth sat like a stone in my chest.

Eventually, I got up. I needed... something. Air. Movement. Distance.

I padded into the hallway, my socks whisper-soft against the carpet. Sam and Lily's doors were both shut tight. I could hear the faint sound of Lily snoring and Sam shifting in his sheets. They were out cold. Kids always bounce back faster.

I kept walking.

When I reached my parents' room, I slowed. Their door was mostly closed—just cracked, warm yellow light spilling into the hall like a line I wasn't supposed to cross.

But I stopped anyway.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop.

I just... couldn't walk away.

I pressed my back to the wall, standing just out of view.

"She's pulling away again," Mom said, her voice low and worn down. "She barely ate. She wouldn't even look at me."

A pause.

Dad's voice followed, rough and tired. "Yeah. I noticed."

"She had a good time at the mall today. I thought maybe..." Mom trailed off. "I really thought it helped."

"It probably did," Dad replied. "But it's not fixing what's really going on."

Silence. Then Mom again. "I feel like I'm losing her. Like she's screaming inside but doesn't know how to say the words out loud."

"She is," Dad said. "And she doesn't."

Mom's voice broke. "She used to tell me everything, Matt. I don't know what I did to make her stop."

"You didn't do anything," he said. "She's just dealing with something too big. And she thinks she has to carry it alone."

"I keep waiting for her to come to me," Mom whispered. "But she just smiles and says she's fine. Like she's afraid of what'll happen if she tells the truth."

"She's not ready," Dad said quietly. "But she will be."

There was a long silence.

Then I heard Mom again, her voice cracking. "I'm scared."

"I know," Dad murmured. "I am too."

A rustle of movement. The bed creaked softly.

"I just want her to know," Mom said, so softly it almost didn't reach me, "that no matter what she's carrying—no matter what happened—she's not alone."

My breath caught in my throat.

I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from making a sound. My chest ached in a way I couldn't describe. They loved me. I knew that. But I also knew they were just as lost in this as I was.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Not because they didn't care.

But because they did—and I still couldn't bring myself to tell them.

I backed away slowly, careful not to make the floor creak.

Then I turned, slipped back into my room, and pulled the blanket up over my head.

I didn't cry.

I didn't sleep.

But the silence didn't feel as heavy now.

Because even if I wasn't ready to talk...

I knew they were still listening.

And maybe—just maybe—I wouldn't have to carry this alone forever.