A small, stupid part of me hoped maybe he wouldn't come home tonight. That the door would stay locked, that the walls would stay quiet.
But then, somewhere past 11, I heard it — the door unlocking, the hinges complaining softly.
No slam.
No hurried footsteps.
Just the sound of shoes scraping gently against the floor.
He was home.
But something was different.
Usually, when Dad came in, it was like a storm entering the house — doors banging, a bag hitting the counter, the sigh of a man trying too hard to prove he still mattered. But tonight, he moved quietly. Carefully.
Like someone walking through a graveyard of his own mistakes.
There was no anger in the air, no forced laughter, no sharp words thrown into the silence to fill it. Just… defeat. You could hear it, even without words. That strange, heavy quiet that clings to someone who's finally run out of fight.
I stood in the dark hallway for a moment, toothbrush still in hand, listening.
Drawers opened. Closed.
A cough.
Then Mom's voice — calm, measured, almost rehearsed.
His voice followed, low and tired.
And soon, the arguing began.
It wasn't shouting, not tonight. Just that dull, constant murmur of tension — the sound of two people trying to rebuild something that had already fallen apart.
To most people, it might've been uncomfortable. But for me, it was familiar — background noise. White noise. The sound of home.
I crawled into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin, letting their muffled voices bleed through the walls. I tried to focus on something else — on tomorrow, on what I'd say to Emma, on whether I'd regret what I wrote.
But uncertainty has a way of eating its own tail.
The more you think about it, the less sense it makes.
Would she even talk to me?
My eyes drifted shut, and the questions tangled together until they stopped making sense.
Sleep came slowly — not like falling, but like sinking.
And then I was somewhere else.
The air was warm. Not stifling, not artificial — just comfortable. The kind of warmth that seeps into you and makes you forget what cold ever felt like.
There was laughter in the other room — not sharp or forced, but light, like sunlight slipping through curtains.
A smell of something cooking. Not burnt. Not rushed. Just home.
I walked through the house — my house — but not really. Everything looked the same, yet felt different. The walls didn't hum with tension. The floorboards didn't groan under the weight of silence.
My mom was sitting on the couch, smiling — really smiling — her eyes soft and alive in a way I hadn't seen in years. My dad was next to her, laughing at something on the TV, the lines on his face lighter, his voice steady.
For a moment, I just stood there, not daring to breathe.
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be.
But it felt real — too real.
The couch cushions were soft under my hands, the air smelled faintly of coffee, and my chest ached in a way it never did in dreams.
It was… happiness.
Pure, unbroken, and terrifyingly gentle.
I sat between them, and they didn't seem surprised. My mom leaned against my shoulder, my dad ruffled my hair, and the TV played some old movie we'd all seen a hundred times before.
For the first time in a long time, the world didn't feel heavy.
It didn't feel like something I had to carry.
And then — as dreams always do — it shifted.
The laughter faded first. Then the colors.
The warmth bled away, leaving that faint, familiar chill behind.
When I blinked, I was back in my real room. The clock read 3:14 a.m. The air conditioner hummed quietly, blowing out cold air that didn't match the temperature on the screen.
From the other room came the faint sound of arguing again — distant, tired, mechanical.
The dream was gone.
But a piece of it clung to me — that fragile warmth that didn't belong here.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks I could barely see in the dark.
Tomorrow loomed somewhere beyond the night.
School. Faces. Words. The weight of what I'd written.
ZzzzzzzZz
When I opened my eyes again, the world felt… off.
The ceiling was the same, the faint crack in the plaster still stretching above me like a scar, but the air was too still. Too gentle. I blinked twice, then once more, letting the heaviness of sleep cling to my mind like a fog. My body felt reluctant, almost foreign, as I dragged myself upright.
The scent hit me first — breakfast. Warm, soft, not burnt.
That alone was enough to make my chest tighten. Mom's cooking always came with the faint bitterness of something forgotten on the stove. But this… this smelled perfect. Too perfect.
I stood, slow and unsure, my bare feet brushing against the cold wood floor. The world moved around me in a dull rhythm — washing my face, brushing my teeth, changing clothes. Every motion mechanical, rehearsed, like my body remembered what to do even when my mind refused to catch up.
When I stepped into the kitchen, sunlight spilled across the table in wide golden lines. A plate waited there — eggs, toast, bacon, and a glass of orange juice glinting like amber. Mom turned to me, smiling too wide.
"Good morning," she said, her voice smooth, practiced. "I'll be taking you to school today. Your dad will be out for the next few weeks."
I stared at her. Something in my chest twisted — not fear, not yet, but the cold shadow of it. Her eyes held mine too long, her smile never faltering.
I sat. Ate. The food was perfect — every bite warm, real, alive — and yet every taste carried the weight of a lie I couldn't name.
By the time I stepped outside, backpack on my shoulder, the world felt brighter, quieter…
and terribly wrong.
I can count on one hand the number of times my mom ever made something that actually tasted good — something fully edible, like she cared.
The first was after her job promotion. She'd danced in the kitchen that night, humming a tune no one recognized, the smell of overcooked oil replaced for once by something warm and real.
The second was when she won at the casino during a girls' night. Champagne laughter, perfume heavy in the air, money spread across the counter like trophies.
The third — and maybe the worst — was after the accident. She'd made me cry on command, right there on the curb, tears mixing with dust as the other driver watched. Her voice trembled perfectly for the police, the kind of performance that deserved an award. The pancakes the next morning were golden. Sweet. Paid for by sympathy and an insurance check.
But this morning… this one didn't fit.
No reason. No payoff. No audience.
The smell drifting through the house wasn't celebration or manipulation. It was calm. Intentional. Wrong.
So why?
The question echoed as I stood there, half-dressed and half-awake, the walls of the house suddenly too clean, the silence too kind.
Mom had never done anything without a reason — every gesture, every smile, every tear carefully placed.
And yet here it was: breakfast without motive. Warmth without cost.
So why now?
Why this?
The fork in my hand felt heavy, the kind of heavy that presses on your ribs when something inside you already knows the answer —
but refuses to say it out loud.