The Loud The Quiet
Our new house—twenty-five minutes from the sprawling brick maze of Spearville High—felt hollow, like it was missing something important. Back in New York, there was always noise. A dog barking. Sirens in the distance. Music thumping from a party down the block like a second heartbeat.
Here? Just the hum of the refrigerator and the wind whispering through the pines.
I kicked a loose pebble across the driveway. It didn't even make a satisfying sound—just a dull thud as it disappeared into the grass.
Dad called this place "quaint."
I knew what he really meant: quiet, convenient, and just close enough to the city that his commute to the warehouse distribution center only took an hour.
Mom was already working night shifts at the hospital downtown.
They're good people. They keep the lights on. Pay the bills.
But they might as well live on Mars.
They wouldn't be home until after ten, which meant I had the house to myself for the next six hours.
I dropped onto the dusty floor of my new room, phone already in my hand. The only box I bothered to bring up was the one labeled fragile: do not touch. It leaned against the wall like it was waiting for me.
I didn't need to open it.
I already knew what was inside.
My worn-out red and green Jackson Dinky. The fretboard scarred from years of playing. My lifeline.
Tomorrow, I start school.
I pictured the cafeteria—packed with strangers who'd probably known each other since kindergarten. Friend groups already locked in. No empty seats. No easy way in.
I wouldn't know where to sit.
Who to talk to.
Or even where the bathrooms were.
I opened my Notes app instead—the one where I kept my ever-growing list of terrible band names.
Today's entry:
Molten Core.
