AVA'S POV
Waking up in the morning is one of the things I hate the most in this miserable life of mine. The blaring sound of my alarm slices through the fog of sleep, dragging me from the only peace I seem to find these days. I slap the snooze button with more force than necessary, wishing it would silence everything.
My body feels heavy as I stare at my ceiling, the boring, lifeless color Mom chose. It's some shade of beige, the kind that blends into the background like it's afraid to be noticed—like me, sometimes. Ironic. I let out a long breath, my chest tightening with the weight of everything I refuse to think about. This room, this house, this life—it all feels like a cage.
I should get up. I know I should, but I can't find the energy to move. The thought of school, of pretending, exhausts me. Every morning feels like the start of another battle, and I'm not sure I have the strength to fight today. Or any day.
Mom's voice echoes from downstairs, muffled by the walls. She's probably nagging me to hurry up. Her cheery, overbearing attitude is something I can't stand, especially when my entire world feels like it's on the verge of collapse and she's oblivious to it all.
I finally drag myself out of bed, each movement slow, deliberate, like I'm wading through quicksand. My feet hit the cold hardwood floor, and the chill sends a shiver up my spine, forcing me awake a little more. I shuffle to my closet, pulling on the school uniform and the five-thousand-dollar jacket I hate just as much as I hate this house.
But it's one of the items from the popular, it girl pack, so I have to wear it. Appearances, right? That's all anyone cares about at school. It's all they see. The perfectly curated image I've created for myself—flawless, untouchable, unbothered. Put people in boxes? I scoff, the nerd's words replaying in my mind. As if I wasn't put in a box the moment I stepped into that school.
Downstairs, Mom's voice floats as she insists on how I'm going to be late for school, and I pause at the end of the stairs, staring at her in disbelief. "Aren't you going to ask about why I was caught smoking?"
The question makes my mother freeze, her back stiffening as she grips the edge of the counter. The silence that follows feels heavier than it should, stretching long and tense between us. Her cheerful facade falters for just a moment—just a crack—before she recovers, smoothing her white suit and turning to face me with that same practiced smile.
"Sweetheart, I know you're just going through a phase," She says, her voice light, dismissive, like she's brushing off something insignificant. "You're too smart to let something like that ruin your future."
A phase. I can't help the bitter laugh that escapes my throat. A phase. Like the aching emptiness clawing at my insides is temporary. Like the endless pressure to be perfect will disappear if I ignore it long enough. Like the cigarette I lit in a moment of rebellion was just a teenage experiment, instead of the only time I felt in control of something—anything.
"You don't get it," I mutter, shaking my head. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I fight the urge to scream. "You never get it." Her smile wavers again, just a fraction, and I can see the flicker of worry in her eyes, but she doesn't push. She never pushes. She doesn't want to know the truth. Doesn't want to see what's right in front of her. "I'm late for school."
I can't stand to be in this house any longer, where everything is pristine and perfect on the outside but crumbling beneath the surface. She doesn't stop me as I walk out the door, doesn't even call after me, and I'm glad. Because if I had to face her again, I might finally break apart completely.
Outside, the cool morning air hits my face like a slap as my personal driver opens the door for me. I flash her a tight, forced smile as I slide into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin. My driver, Nancy, doesn't ask questions. She never does. Just like everyone else in my life, she plays her part, keeping up the pretense that everything is fine. That I'm fine. But I'm the one who asks questions.
