⇰ Seventeen-year-old Alora has spent her life in the shadows of pain and betrayal. When she's torn from the only world she's ever known and thrust into the arms of a family she never knew existed, healing feels impossible. But as she fights to rebui...
♫"HEAD IN THE CLOUDS BUT MY GRAVITY CENTERED."♫ ⇢ Sweater Weather, The Neighborhood.
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The house is quiet, as it has become lately. A quiet that feels suffocating, empty in a way that echoes the stillness inside my chest.
Alora hasn't moved since we came back from the supermarket. I keep glancing at her, feeling the weight of her quiet presence. Even when she smiles—just barely, just enough to acknowledge us—there's something off, something distant. Exhaustion seems to cling to her, and her eyes, those blue eyes, hold a void I can't seem to look away from.
Her gaze seems haunted, as though she's carrying a weight that no one can see, a trauma that feels far beyond what she's willing—or able—to share.
I can't stop wondering what it is. The things she's holding back, the things we still don't know. The thought makes my stomach twist. There are things I'd rather not know, things that I think might destroy me if they ever come to light.
I shift my focus to her as she sits on the couch in front of me, wrapped in a blanket that she clutches like her life depends on it. Her fingers dig into the fabric, almost as if holding onto it is the only thing grounding her.
Her hand moves instinctively to her chest, pressing down, and I notice she does that a lot whenever she feels anxious, whenever something feels too overwhelming.
"Alora?" I call softly, my voice tentative, unsure if she even hears me.
No response.
"Alora!" Dominic says from across the room, his tone sharper, more demanding this time.
Still, no response.
I push off the couch and move to her, sitting down beside her, the space between us feeling too vast. "Hey, what's wrong? Talk to me," I say, my voice frantic now, filled with concern.
"I... can't..." she gasps, her breathing shallow, strained. The words falter, caught in her throat like something too heavy to utter.
"Shit—she can't fucking breathe! Call 911, you idiot!" Dominic snaps, his voice harsher than I've ever heard it, but I barely register his tone.
Ignoring his outburst, I grab my phone, my hands trembling, unable to control the frantic rush of panic. I hit the button, my thumb hovering over the call button, when I hear it—the knock at the door.
It's sharp, unexpected, and jarring against the stillness of the house.
I freeze, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.
Dominic glances at me, his eyes wide, his expression torn between panic and confusion.
"Who—who the hell knocks at this time?" His voice is sharp, tense, as if he's struggling to comprehend the intrusion.
I stand slowly, moving toward the door, my hands still shaking. Alora's gasping breath follows me, each sound a reminder of how fragile she feels right now.
