Alice woke with the ghost of a touch still tingling on her skin. The dream—vivid, warm, and utterly mortifying—clung to her consciousness like honey. Damian's hands had traced constellations on her back, his breath a summer wind against her neck. She groaned, pressing her palms into her eyes until stars burst behind the lids.
"Stupid," she whispered to the ceiling. "Delusional."
The anxiety pills sat on her nightstand, innocent and white. She blamed them entirely.
She snorted, a laugh that was half self-mockery. Some doors should stay locked, even from yourself.
Her phone buzzed. One unread message from Damian Jones.
Damian: hey. what's up. do you need something?
Sent at 7:02 AM. The clinical politeness of it, the careful neutrality—it was a door held only slightly ajar. Alice stared at the screen, her thumb hovering. She remembered the fragment her mother had let slip, the sad, bitter story of a woman who never wanted the life she got. She should tell him. Not because he was Damian, but because he was the only person who might understand the unique poison of being born a regret. But not yet. Not over text.
Downstairs, the air was wrong.
Her father's chair at the breakfast table was empty, a vacancy that screamed louder than any argument. The kitchen smelled of burnt hope and onions. Violet Hart stood at the stove, stirring something that bubbled with the slow, thick menace of impending doom. Her mother was not a cook, it was usually the househelp or her dad himself who dealt with the pots and pans most of her life. Her mother was an architect of culinary disasters, and the scent of this particular construction was the scent of bad news masquerading as soup.
Alice sat. A plate appeared before her: a vegetable sandwich, cut with geometric precision, a handful of blueberries, a banana without a blemish, and a mango smoothie the color of artificial sunshine. The care was so alien it felt like a threat.
"Where's Dad?" Alice asked.
Violet didn't turn around. "Gone to work early. Important meeting."
"Why?"
The knife hit the cutting board with a sharp, final thud. "Because he has a job, Alice. That's what adults do."
"Did you talk to him? Did you settle… things?"
Violet spun, and the dam broke. "Settle? You have no idea what you're talking about! You should mind your own business and focus on your studies. Ever since you went to that party, this family has been ripping apart at the seams. You're the thread that got pulled, Alice."
Alice's voice was deceptively calm. "What happened when I was gone?"
The story came out in a scalding torrent. Violet blamed her. Richard Hart's fear had curdled into fury, and he'd kicked Violet out of the house to hunt for Alice in the night. Violet had become a ghost in her own life, drifting from the party house above the hills to the closed faces of Alice's friends' homes, to the damp emptiness of the park, and finally to the neon-soaked gutters of bars and clubs, searching for a daughter who wasn't there. She'd gone to the police only to be patted down with procedure and told to go home. Forty-eight hours, they'd said. She's probably just a runaway.
"The humiliation," Violet whispered, her voice cracking. "They looked at me like I was a hysterical fool."
She'd returned at 6 AM to a husband who was a storm of blame. A long, brutal fight that lasted all day. And then, a silence filled by the rattle of a pill bottle. "I just wanted the noise to stop so I did what anyone would do in that situation. I tried to end my life and finally bring peace to your and your unlucky father's life."
The confession hung in the air like a noose.
Alice's apology was a soft, broken thing. "I'm sorry I'm a shitty daughter." She looked up, her eyes dry but burning. "But staying in this house, reading 24/7 until my brain was fried, losing every single friend I had—that bothered me, Mom. I just… needed some fresh air."
"When did you lose your godforsaken friends?" Violet's question was full of snark.
"A long time ago."
A strange, sad sigh escaped Violet. "Leaving them was probably the best decision in your life till now, perhaps."
The sudden anger in Alice's chest was now a hot coal. She let it burn her tongue. "Where did you get the pills, Mom?"
Silence. A vast, echoing void where an answer should have been. Violet's face shuttered. "I'm tired." She put down the pot of bubbling, nameless food with a heavy clank. She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, a childlike gesture, and washed her hands meticulously before retreating to the living room. The drone of the TV filled the space where a family used to be.
Alice ate the sandwich. It tasted like ash and effort. She left the house without a goodbye, the word too heavy to carry.
On the school bus, the seat next to her was a void. Damian arrived to school, sliding from a private car, his face a map of exhaustion and disturbance. He walked into Westbridge High like a soldier returning from a war no one could see. She didn't speak to him until gym class, when she'd climbed to the highest corner of the bleachers, a solitary gargoyle overlooking the squeaking chaos of sneakers on polished wood. Mia fluttered up, a brief, bright bird offering a perch with her flock, but Alice just smiled and shook her head. She wasn't flock material anymore.
Damian climbed. The eyes of a dozen girls tracked his ascent, a flock of their own. Mia stole a glance that was more dagger than look. The boys' gossip was a low hum of static electricity. He dropped onto the bench beside her with a heavy sigh.
Alice feigned a coolness she didn't feel. "Of all the empty seats in this gym, Jones, you chose this one."
"Who gives a damn?" He leaned back, closing his eyes. "I needed a shoulder. Metaphorically, at least."
"Captain duty that bad?"
"It's a pile of paperwork and politics on top of my actual studies. I don't know how Melvin made it look like a waltz. He must be part-octopus." He opened one eye, looking at her. "So. Why did you text me last night? You've looked hollow this week. Like someone scooped out your insides and left you to dry."
"It's been a rough week for me."
"Want to share the load?" His voice was soft, the same one he'd used in the dream.
"Not here. The gossips worse are than freshmans. After school maybe?"
"The school bus is a tin can of unintentional confessions. You'd make the front page of the rumor mill."
"So, a cafe then?" She asked him, a challenge in her eyes.
"What about your parents? You miss the bus, they get an alert. That's an invitation for trouble you don't need."
Alice stared down at the polished bench. "They're adults, Damian. They're supposed to handle things. I'm done trying to hold water in a fishnet. I won't deprive my happiness for the sake of being a good girl. Fuck that." The statement felt like a small, terrifying act of treason.
The cafe was one of Abraham Jones's acquisitions, a mid-range place called "The Copper Kettle" with exposed brick and the scent of roasting beans. "Let me guess," Alice said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Your dad owns this one, too. Is there a single place in town where I can buy a muffin without contributing to your inheritance?"
Damian's grin was tired but genuine. "Probably not. He collects them like trading cards. This one, the steakhouse on Fifth, 'Le Jardin,' the cheap noodle bar 'Wok & Roll' by the highway…"
They found a secluded corner, tucked behind a large fern that had seen better days. They ordered a chaotic feast: one cheeseburger, one basket of fries, a strawberry shake and a chocolate one, agreeing to share everything in a democracy of flavors. It was the most intimate thing Alice had done with another person in years.
"So," Damian said, taking a sip of the pink shake and pushing it toward her. "Spill. What painted that haunted look under your eyes?"
Alice stiffened as a group of customers jostled into the booth next to them. Her secrets retreated back down her throat. "You're seeing things. My concealer has been working overtime, you have no idea."
"Don't do that. I know I'm going to sound cringe but don't wallpaper over the cracks." He reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of her hand. "I know your landscape, Alice. I know where the rivers run. You can hide a drought from strangers, but not from someone who's walked through your valleys."
She pulled her hand back, sighing. "It's not worth it. It's just more of the same broken record." She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspirator's whisper. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Always."
"What are we?" Her eyes were on his, a direct, unwavering beam. "This. Us. Are we friends? Are we… something else? Just siblings on a technicality?"
Damian lost his composure. He leaned back, a nervous chuckle escaping him, running a hand through his hair. The easy, smooth heir was gone, replaced by a boy who looked genuinely cornered. "I… wow. Alice. I can't answer that. I don't have a word for it." Some bonds aren't blood or love, but a secret third thing the dictionary hasn't caught up with yet.
She stared at him, the silence a held breath, her expression saying she was one wrong word from shattering. "I'd love to talk to you," she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. "Somewhere else. Somewhere no one can hear us or care what we say."
He nodded, his answer a solemn vow. "Okay."
They pivoted, a silent agreement to survive the next hour on small talk. They discussed the literary symbolism in Titanic, the physics homework from hell, and Damian's drudgery of organizing the sports schedule.
After they ate, they walked. The afternoon sun was a liar, promising warmth it couldn't deliver. They ended up in a back alley behind the cafe, leaning against a wall of dirty, sun-warmed brick, the smell of damp cardboard and grease traps a strange kind of sanctuary.
Alice told him. The drugs. The suicide attempt. The whole bitter, decades-long opera of Violet's life, the story she'd absorbed through the fog of pills. She was a pressure cooker finally releasing steam.
"She never wanted me," Alice said, her voice flat. "I was a trap that snapped shut on her life. I just… why didn't she just end it then? Have an abortion, or… or just kill me when I was a baby? It would have been a neat ending.... Death is quiet. Mom was never happy for having me." She pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket, a betrayal she'd been hiding, and lit one with the fluid practice of a secret smoker. The smoke curled into the dirty air, a gray spirit of her rebellion.
Damian watched her, his awe undercut with a sharp, protective pain. Then he did the only thing he could think of. He hugged her. A full-body, enveloping embrace that didn't care about the dirty wall or the smoking cigarette. It was the hug of someone trying to hold a crumbling statue together.
Alice's smile was a sad, crooked thing against his chest. "You're so loved, Damian. It radiates off you. Your mom adores you. The world lays out a red carpet. Me? I'm the thing that gets wiped off the bottom of everyone's shoe, no matter how hard I prove myself. Everything's a facade or a lie in my fucked up life."
He pulled back, holding her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the hollows of her cheeks. "Whoever told you that," he said, his voice thick, "was blind as a bat. You're not a stain, Alice. You're the thing that leaves the stain. You're indelible." He leaned in, the moment a fragile crystal, his eyes dropping to her lips.
She turned her head, removing him, and took a long, slow drag of her cigarette, breaking the spell with a cloud of smoke.
"When did you start smoking?" he asked, the frustration bleeding into his voice.
"None of your business." She took her sweet time then gave a half hearted smile. "Sorry for wasting your time."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She dropped the cigarette, crushing it under her shoe with a grinding finality. "It means this is useless, Damian. My past can't be fixed. My mom won't stop being a monsoon of awfulness. My stepdad can't be my invulnerable shield forever. And you and me… we won't stop being this weird, blood related bad idea." She looked at him, her eyes clear and terribly sad. "Talking about it is just wasting your precious time. It's my cue to move on. For good. I've been pining for you, and it's not a good thing. It's a dead-end."
His face was a storm of frustration. "I don't care about the sibling status. I want to be close to you. At least as a friend.."
"That's a beautiful, stupid lie," she said, her voice soft but unyielding. "One day, you'll have a girlfriend. A real one. And she will despise me. She'll see me as a threat, and she'll be right. I'll just be a ghost at the feast."
"I won't let anyone hurt you."
"Then you'd be unfair to her, and a liar to yourself." Alice took his hand, her touch a goodbye. "I'm going to stop bothering you. This time for real. I really, really hope you find someone who can give you all the light I can't." You can't build a house on a fault line, no matter how beautiful the view.
A vein pulsed in Damian's jaw. Frustration warred with a desire to just shake her, to shout down her tragic, self-sacrificing logic. He opened his mouth, ready to snap.
"Hey, Hart? That you?"
The voice was a bucket of cold water. Melvin Blackthorne and Nathan Reyes were standing at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted by the sun. Melvin's gaze was a careful, calculating thing, but his smile was deceptively easy. "You look like you're plotting a funeral back here."
Alice's transformation was instant. She blinked, and the shattered girl was replaced by a mask of polite amusement. "Melvin. Nathan. I'm alright. Shouldn't I be asking you that? You've had a rougher week than most."
Melvin's smile tightened. "I have managed it."
"I better go," Damian muttered, the tension rolling off him in waves. He forced a smile, a brittle, diplomatic thing, and excused himself, walking past Melvin without another glance. Alice watched him disappear, her heart a stone sinking in her chest.
She made small, hollow talk with Melvin, her eyes on the empty end of the alley, before finally heading home.
The moment she walked through the door, a new storm was waiting. Violet was pacing, a lioness fueled by rage and fear. "You. You didn't take the bus. I got the message. Where were you?"
"With a friend," Alice said, the lie exhausting. "A girl."
Violet's hand shot out, shoving a phone in her face. The screen was a weapon, a photograph of the pool party. It was the moment the forbidden kiss or the attempt of Damian to save Alice's miserable life. A moment of pure, damning intent.
"This," Violet hissed. "Explain this. Your friend showed it to me. Is this the guy you're hiding from me? What was his name again? Damian... Damian Jones!"
Alice's heart didn't skip a beat. It just… stopped. And in that strange, calm stillness, a new, cold voice spoke from her lips. It was the voice of a girl with nothing left to lose.
"That's photoshopped. Sophia has been bullying me all year. She must have used AI or something. You can't even see our faces clearly."
The lie was so bold, so brazen, and delivered with such sincere, tired contempt, that Violet was stunned into silence. Her mouth opened and closed. The absolute certainty in Alice's voice was a wall she couldn't scale.
Alice didn't wait for a reply. She turned, walked up the stairs, and shut her bedroom door. The click of the lock was the most satisfying sound she'd ever heard. She fell onto her bed, still fully clothed, and closed her eyes, praying for a sleep without dreams and a world without morning.