Dinner was nearly over when your mother set down her glass and looked at you in that way — the one that made your skin crawl before she even spoke.

“So…” she began, dragging the word out like she was unwrapping something unpleasant. “How’s that… drummer boy?”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. “Kevin?”

Your sister gave a little laugh. “God, is that really his name? He looks like someone who’d work at a gas station forever.”

“He plays in a band,” you said evenly, “and he’s actually really good.”

Your father scoffed. “A metal band. That’s not a career, that’s a hobby. He’s a distraction. And frankly, he’s not exactly—” He hesitated, as if searching for the most polite insult. “—the kind of person we pictured for you.”

You could feel your chest tightening. “The ‘kind of person’ you pictured for me is basically a cardboard cutout in a suit.”

“He’s unstable,” your mother said, like she’d been waiting for the opening. “Always in trouble at school, no focus, no plans. You’ve already got your own… struggles… and now you’re tying yourself to someone who’s going nowhere.”

Your sister smirked. “You’re the black sheep already, but this? You’re making it worse. No one’s going to take you seriously if you keep running around with him.”

You set your fork down, slowly, carefully, because your hands were starting to shake. “You don’t know him. You’ve never even tried to.”

“We don’t need to,” your father said. “We can see the type.”

That was it. The final match to the gasoline.

“The type?” you repeated, heat crawling up your neck. “You mean someone who doesn’t care what people like you think? Someone who actually likes me for me instead of constantly trying to change me? Yeah, you’re right — that’s exactly his type.”

Your mother’s voice sharpened. “You’re being ridiculous—”

“No,” you cut in, shoving your chair back hard enough that it scraped against the floor. “I’m being done. Done with you trashing the only person in my life who actually gives a damn.”

You grabbed your jacket and bag, ignoring the half-hearted “Don’t walk away” from your father and your sister’s whispered, “Overreact much?”

The door slammed behind you, your pulse still pounding in your ears. And right on cue, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Kevin: “Band practice’s over. Wanna hang out?”