habits.
I woke up to a voice, low but sharp, spilling through the walls. For a second, my heart stuttered—panic rushing through me. Mom’s room. Always her room. I dragged myself out of bed, bare feet brushing cold against the floor as I padded down the hallway.
The door wasn’t even fully shut. I pushed it open, just enough, and there it was. Another man. New face, same scene. Mom tangled up with him, her laugh too high, too desperate.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t shocking. I’d seen it too many times before. Still, something heavy sat in my chest, pressing down until I could only exhale in a long, tired sigh.
She noticed me then. Her eyes went wide, mouth parting, fumbling for excuses—something about him just being a “friend,” something about me misunderstanding. Same script. Different actor.
I didn’t say a word. Just turned around, my throat tight but my face empty, and walked back to my room. Closed the door. Climbed back into bed. Silence again. Except this time, it wasn’t outside. It was inside me.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the fan mixing with muffled voices from down the hall. My stomach twisted, but not from surprise. No, nothing about tonight was new.
Ever since the divorce, this had become the rhythm of our house. Men slipping in when the world was asleep, men slipping out before the sun rose. Strangers at first, then patterns, then just shadows I stopped trying to recognize.
At first, I used to wonder if maybe one of them would stay—if maybe she was looking for something real. But they never did. They always left. And she always acted like it was nothing.
I was tired. Tired of faces I didn’t care to learn, tired of fake smiles and empty excuses, tired of the way my home didn’t feel like home anymore. Every time the door creaked open, every time I heard a laugh that wasn’t hers, it reminded me of what we’d lost the day my parents split. Stability. A family. A little piece of peace.
Now, all that’s left is a revolving door. And me, sitting here, pretending not to care.
The next morning, I dragged myself to school with half-dead eyes and a knot in my chest. Sleep had been more of a fight than a rest. By the time I walked into the courtyard, Ashlyn was already there, leaning against the stone wall like she owned the place—golden hair catching the sun, lips glossed, that effortless aura that made teachers look the other way whenever she slipped up.
I went straight to her, because I always did. She was my anchor, even if she was chaos wrapped in pretty.
“You won’t believe what Professor Christian said today,” Ashlyn grinned, twirling a strand of her hair like she was about to spill gossip instead of doom.
“What?” I asked, already bracing myself.
“He said whoever fails the next test has to bring their parents in for a meeting.” She said it like it was a joke, like it didn’t matter.
But my heart stopped. The blood rushed to my ears, my throat tightening until it was hard to breathe. Parents. My mother. Sitting across from a professor, acting like she had it together when I knew she’d probably be hungover, or worse—maybe she wouldn’t even show. The thought made me want to disappear into the floor.
Ashlyn caught my face in an instant, that wicked smile spreading across her lips. “Ohhh,” she dragged out, tilting her head, “you don’t want mommy dearest showing up, do you?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. She could read me like a book.
Then, with a mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes, she leaned closer. “What if,” she whispered, “we just… stole the test papers from Christian’s office?”
I blinked at her, stunned. “Ashlyn—”
She shrugged, smirking like the devil in designer sneakers. “What? He’s careless. Leaves everything lying around. It’s practically an invitation.”
My stomach twisted again. I didn’t know what was worse—the thought of stealing, or the thought of my mom sitting in that classroom, pretending to be the kind of mother she wasn’t.
