𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓; 𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐈

𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝘄𝗼

✩♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
❝ 𝒊 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔
𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒎 𝒊 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 ❞

⌞ N O V E M B E R - 2 0 2 0 ⌝

Upstairs in my room, I cranked up my music, letting the bass shake the walls just enough to drown out the muffled shouting drifting up from downstairs.

My parents were fighting, again. I could tell it was serious—it always felt serious.

My mom's voice was sharp, cutting through whatever quiet they'd had down there.

Dad's was lower, steadier, like he was trying to keep things under control. Not that he ever really could.

I scrolled through my phone, trying to focus on something, anything, else. Messages from friends, some random videos, pictures that had nothing to do with me or this house. I wasn't going to let her get to me.

Not tonight.

I was too used to it, the way she would twist everything and somehow make it all about what a burden we were. How everything she did was for us. And how, no matter what, it was somehow never enough.

The music was my wall, the one thing I had to block it all out. I shut my eyes, leaning back against my bed and letting the noise fill me up.

This was my routine.

I'd gotten good at pretending the arguments didn't bother me, at pretending I was too busy, too above it to care.

Maybe it was just easier to think of it that way—that my mom was always going to be impossible, that no matter how much my dad tried to fix things, they'd always end up right back here.

A part of me knew I should probably care more, or at least pay attention. The words from downstairs were angry, cutting, too loud and too sharp to ignore completely.

But I told myself it was nothing new. She was always upset, and Dad was always trying to make her happy.

I lay there, eyes on my screen, pretending this was just another night. Just another fight.

Or at least I thought so.

The house was quieter than usual the next evening. Even the sounds of the city outside our windows felt hushed, like they knew something was about to shatter.

I'd come back from school to find my dad sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a mug of coffee that had probably been cold for hours.

Something about his expression made me feel small, like the air in the room was shrinking around me.

"Dad?" I called out, dropping my backpack by the door. He didn't respond right away. He just sat there, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug as if it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

The sight of him like that—so still, so...defeated—made my chest ache.

I took a step closer, feeling a tremor of something wrong—something I couldn't quite name. "Dad," I said, louder this time.

He blinked, finally turning his gaze to me, but his eyes looked distant. His face was pale, hollow almost, like he'd aged a few years in the few hours since I'd left for school.

I waited for him to say something, to explain why he was acting so strangely. But instead, he took a deep breath, exhaled shakily, and leaned back in his chair.