“Things You Don’t Say Out Loud”

You stopped trying to explain it a long time ago.

What it felt like to live in that house.

How the screaming wasn’t always loud—but it echoed inside you anyway. How silence could hurt more than words. How even on the calmest nights, your stomach stayed tight, waiting for something to break.

You started smoking just to make your brain stop racing. Weed gave you a pause button. A way to float above it all. You’d light up before school, after school, sometimes even in the bathroom with the window cracked open while your mom watched TV and your dad yelled into the phone.

And when the high wore off, and the ache crawled back in—you turned to the other thing.

A blade. A sharp edge. The one thing you could control. No one knew. You made sure of that.

Except Kevin.

He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

It was the way you wore long sleeves even when it was hot. The way your hands trembled when he reached for them. The way you flinched when he told you he loved you, like the word hit too deep.

One night after you ditched another class, he found you sitting on the pavement behind the school, arms wrapped around your knees, hoodie pulled over your face. He sat beside you and didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“I’m tired,” you finally whispered.

Kevin stared straight ahead. “Of what?”

“Everything.”

The sky was gray. The wind picked up.

“I think I’m broken,” you said. “Like—no matter what I do, I can’t feel right. Weed helps. A little. But not really. Nothing sticks.”

He glanced down at your sleeves, then back at you. His voice was careful.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Your throat tightened. The truth wanted to stay buried—but the way he looked at you, like he could carry it if you let him, made it come out in pieces.

You didn’t say the word.

You just whispered, “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Kevin didn’t cry. But his voice cracked when he said, “Then let me help you stop.”

You looked at him, eyes wide. “Why would you even want to deal with me?”

“Because I love you,” he said. “Even the parts you hate.”

You buried your face into his hoodie, sobbing so quietly it hurt. He wrapped his arms around you and didn’t say it’s going to be okay—because he knew it wasn’t. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

But he held you like someone who was willing to stay. Through all of it.

That night, you let him see your scars. You let him hold your wrists and kiss the skin without flinching.

And for the first time in a long time, the smoke in your lungs wasn’t the only thing that made you feel safe.

He was.