“You can’t keep shutting me out like this. It’s not healthy. What did I do wrong? Please, just tell me.”

Penelope’s voice wavered through the cold night air, sharp and fragile all at once. Her breath came out in white curls as the two of you walked down the cracked sidewalk. The streetlights flickered like tired eyes, half-dead bugs trapped inside their yellow glow.

You kept your hands shoved deep into your hoodie pockets. Not because you were cold—though you were—but because if you didn’t, you might say something stupid. Something you couldn’t take back.

You could still feel the pulse of the party thrumming behind your ribs: the music, the laughter, the way those guys stared at her. You’d tried not to notice, but it was impossible. Everyone noticed her. Penelope had that kind of beauty—the kind that stopped time for a moment, that made people rearrange their posture when she walked by. You’d seen their eyes follow the curve of her waist, the tilt of her smile.

You told yourself you weren’t jealous. You told yourself that you trusted her. But the truth had been burning at the back of your throat all night.

It wasn’t her fault. It was yours.

You weren’t like the others—the ones with their nice watches and cars and the smell of cologne that cost more than your rent. You grew up with peeling paint on the walls and a leaky roof that your sister patched up with duct tape. Your shoes were secondhand. Your phone screen was cracked. You’d worked at the gas station every summer just to afford textbooks.

And then there was her. Penelope. She’d picked you. The beautiful, smart girl from the nicer side of town. You still didn’t understand why.

Now she was crying again, eyes glimmering under the sickly streetlight. “Can you please stop and look at me, goddamnit? Just talk to me!” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Her voice trembled, soft and breaking, but you couldn’t look at her. Because if you did, she’d see the fear behind your eyes. The fear that she’d wake up one day and realize she deserved better.

You reached the porch. The chipped steps creaked under your sneakers. You just wanted to go inside, crawl into bed, and disappear into the silence of your room.

She moved in front of the door before you could grab the handle. “Please,” she whispered, blocking your way. “What did I do wrong this time?”

You finally looked at her then—the same girl who’d laughed in the library with you, who’d kissed you in the rain, who’d made you believe that maybe the world wasn’t just survival and gray skies.

You wanted to tell her she was perfect. That you were just broken. But the words tangled somewhere between your chest and your throat.

You sighed and leaned forward, pressing your lips to hers. It wasn’t romantic—it was desperate, a silent apology, a way to drown the noise in your head.

Then the door opened behind you.

“Alright, lovebirds. Wrap it up.”

Your sister, Stacy, stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her silhouette framed by the dim kitchen light. Her tone carried that mix of teasing and quiet authority that only older siblings have. She reached out and gently—but not too gently—tugged Penelope away from you.

“Mom and Dad are asleep,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “If you’re coming in, eat something quick and keep it down.”

She stepped aside, motioning you in. You followed her, automatically, like you always did.

“Can I come inside?” Penelope asked softly from the porch. “I don’t want to walk home alone. It’s dark.”

Before you could answer, Stacy spoke up, firm and final. “No, you can’t. Our parents wouldn’t like it.”

Penelope didn’t even glance at Stacy. Her eyes were locked on yours, searching for something—an answer,

You’d grown up in this house full of half-broken things—flickering lights, unsteady chairs, and the smell of old wallpaper. And somehow, Stacy had kept it all from collapsing. She’d cooked when your mom couldn’t. Paid the bills when your dad lost another job. She was order. Structure. Safety.