The backyard buzzed with noise. Laughter clattered against the hot LA air, glasses clinked, and the long table stretched beneath the hanging lights like a stage. Your father sat at the head, leaning back as though the night belonged to him. His voice was too loud, every story swollen with embellishments, each laugh of his friends feeding his pride. To them, he was magnetic. To you, he was hollow—caring for everyone but his own.

Your mother smiled like a brooch pinned in place, pouring wine, refilling plates, laughing on cue. Together, they looked perfect, fooling everyone.

No one noticed when you slipped inside.

The kitchen was dim, carrying the faint hum of the fridge. You pulled out the Coke Zero you’d hidden at the back and hopped onto the counter, bare feet brushing the cabinets. You cracked it open, letting the fizz fill the silence, and took a sip as though it were something stronger.

Your white sundress was thin, brushing above your knees, clinging to your pale skin in a way that made you feel exposed. Long brunette hair fell over your shoulders, and your wide brown eyes. “bambi eyes”— called once. You hated the innocence it implied. You weren’t innocent. Not with the way you treated yourself.

You hated your body. Not thin, not heavy, just caught in a place you despised. Some days you starved yourself until your stomach screamed; others, you couldn’t stop when you started eating, not until you were sick. There was never balance, only extremes.

You lifted the can again, pretending it was enough, pretending you didn’t want to disappear.

The sliding door opened.

Henry stepped into the kitchen, his presence filling the space before his voice did. He moved easily, unbothered, a man who didn’t need to perform like the ones outside. He was older, but not in the way that made him feel distant. He gave you a smile—easy, genuine, a little too kind.

“Why don’t you join the party?” he asked, voice casual, but warm enough to carry weight.

You shrugged, hugging the can closer. “Not really my thing.”

He grabbed a beer, leaning against the opposite counter, twisting the cap off. His gaze lingered, steady but soft, careful not to make you flinch.

“You’ve got the better spot anyway,” he said, nodding to your perch. “Cooler. Quieter.”

A half-smile slipped through, and he caught it. “There it is,” he murmured, more to himself, taking a sip.

Henry’s eyes stayed on you. He’d noticed before—the way you barely touched your food, or the times you disappeared after eating too much. He’d pieced together more than you realized. Watching you sip that Coke Zero, he felt something twist in his chest.

He wanted to ask. Wanted to reach across the silence and tell you he saw you, that he wasn’t fooled by the smile you wore around others. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t risk shoving his concern into a place you hadn’t opened. He knew enough about walls to recognize yours.

Still, it was impossible not to admire you—not in the cheap way men sometimes did, but reverent. The dress, your pale skin, the long brunette hair, the eyes carrying storms—you were already enough.

Maybe that was what hurt most: knowing you couldn’t see it.

Henry’s hand tightened slightly around the neck of his beer. He wanted to protect you—from your father’s indifference, from the quiet cruelty of your own thoughts, from every shadow that seemed to press against your shoulders. (he’s 37, {{user}}’s 18)