A Gentle Collision

Chapter 5

Freen stood in the hallway, her heart pounding as she rehearsed her words for the tenth time. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn back, to forget the idea entirely, but something deep within her refused to let go. The invitation from the neighbor-Becky's mother-felt like a lifeline, a rare chance to step out of the suffocating bubble she lived in.

She took a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she smoothed the front of her worn-out sweater. Her father was in the living room, as usual, his presence filling the small house with an oppressive weight. The faint hum of the news droned on, punctuated by the occasional clink of his coffee cup against the table.

She stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. He didn't acknowledge her at first, his eyes glued to the television screen.

"What is it now?" he snapped, not bothering to look her way.

Freen hesitated, the words caught in her throat. But she forced them out, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I wanted to ask if I could go to a party."

He turned to her, his eyes narrowing sharply. "A party? What nonsense are you talking about?"

"The neighbor," Freen stammered, twisting her hands nervously. "She invited us. It's just a small gathering. I thought-"

"You thought?" he interrupted, his tone mocking. "Since when do you get to think about things like that? You have responsibilities here, Freen. Not time to waste at some meaningless social event."

"It's just for a few hours," she said quickly, her voice trembling. "I'd finish all my chores first. You wouldn't have to come if you don't want to."

His expression darkened, and he leaned forward, the air between them thick with tension. "You think I'm going to let you go out alone? Do you think I trust you?"

"It's not about trust," Freen said softly, barely meeting his gaze. "I just... I just thought it would be nice. To meet some people. To... breathe a little."

Her father slammed his hand on the armrest, making her flinch. "Nice? You think life is about what's nice? You think you can just walk out of here and pretend everything is fine? Grow up, Freen. The world doesn't care about nice."

She looked down, her fists clenching at her sides. "I'd be back quickly," she said, her voice almost inaudible.

"You're not going," he declared, his tone final. "And don't bring it up again."

Freen's shoulders sagged, her stomach twisting painfully. She had known this would be his answer, but the weight of the rejection still hit her like a physical blow.

"Now go clean the kitchen," he added, his attention already back on the television.

She nodded silently, turning and walking away. Her vision blurred as she made her way to the kitchen, the familiar ache in her chest spreading like wildfire.

As she scrubbed the counters, her mind replayed the brief conversation. The way his voice cut her down, the way her own voice trembled and broke under his glare-it was a cycle she couldn't escape.

But despite the crushing defeat, a small spark of defiance flickered inside her. She hadn't given up yet. She didn't know how or when, but one day, she'd find a way out of this house. Out of his shadow. Out of this suffocating life.

For now, she kept her head down, her hands busy with the sponge, and her thoughts guarded. It was the only way to survive.