Morning doesn't fix anything.
It just makes everything quieter.
Sunlight slips through my curtains like it doesn't know what happened the night before. The house looks the same—too clean, too big, pretending nothing cracked—but I feel different inside it. Smaller. Sharper.
I get dressed quickly, choosing comfort over anything cute. I don't feel like performing today. I don't feel like being looked at.
Downstairs, the kitchen is spotless.
Too spotless.
My mother stands at the sink, her back to me, already dressed. Her movements are careful, deliberate, like she's afraid of waking something that hasn't gone back to sleep yet.
"Morning," I say.
She turns and smiles—soft, tired, practiced.
"Morning, baby."
We don't talk about last night.
We never do.
I grab something small to eat even though I'm not hungry. The silence stretches, heavy and fragile, until it feels like it might break if either of us breathes wrong.
"I'm going out later," I say finally.
She nods. "Okay."
No questions. No warnings. Just relief.
I don't ask where Antony is.
I don't want to know.
By the time Miquel pulls up that afternoon, I'm already halfway packed—shoes by the door, phone in my hand, keys clenched tight like proof that I can leave.
He smiles when he sees me, wide and familiar, like the world makes sense where he's standing.
"Hey," he says. "You okay?"
I shrug. "I will be."
That's enough for him. He doesn't push.
We drive with the windows down, music low, the air rushing past like it's trying to carry something away from me. For a little while, it works. I laugh. I lean into his shoulder. I pretend I don't know exactly what waits for me when the sun goes down.
At his house, everything feels smaller but safer. The walls don't echo. The doors don't slam. His mother says hello from the kitchen like that's just a normal thing people do.
I sit on his bed and watch him move around the room, comfortable, unaware of how badly I need this normalcy.
"You can stay if you want," he says. "No pressure."
I almost say yes.
Almost.
But I know better.
"I should go home before it gets late," I tell him.
He nods, disappointment flickering across his face before he hides it. "Okay. I'll walk you out."
When I get back in the car, the house looms ahead of me again, patient and waiting.
Miquel squeezes my hand before I go. "Text me when you're inside."
"I will."
I don't tell him how heavy my chest feels when I step out of the car. I don't tell him how the air changes the closer I get to the front door.
I don't want to be the kind of girl who needs saving.
I unlock the door and step back into the quiet.
Nothing happens.
And somehow, that's worse.
YOU ARE READING
The House That Taught Me Silence
Novela JuvenilSome houses shelter you. Others teach you how to disappear. In Part One: Then, Paris is a teenager navigating high school, first love, and loyalty to a family that is quietly unraveling. Inside a house ruled by control and unspoken fear, she learns...
