It started over something stupid. Something so small it shouldn’t have mattered.

Your mom was already yelling by the time you stepped out of your room. “You left your backpack in the hallway again.”

You rubbed your temple. “I was gonna move it.”

“Yeah, sure,” your older sister chimed in from the couch, eyes glued to the TV. “Just like you ‘were gonna’ do the dishes last night.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, why do you even care? You’re not my mom.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” your dad cut in, voice sharp from the kitchen doorway. “She’s right—you’re lazy and careless, and this is exactly why you can’t be trusted with anything.”

Your younger brother snorted. “Yeah, it’s not that hard to put a bag in your room.”

The heat in your chest flared. “Why is everyone acting like I just set the house on fire?”

Your mom stepped closer, pointing a finger at you. “Because you never listen. You always think the rules don’t apply to you.”

“That’s not true!” you snapped.

Your dad’s voice rose. “Don’t talk back to your mother.”

And then it happened too fast—you tried to walk away, but your dad grabbed your arm. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make you flinch. “Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you.”

You yanked your arm back. “Let go of me!”

Your sister muttered something under her breath—probably “drama queen”—and your mom’s face twisted in that look she got when she was done. “Go to your room. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Not because you wanted to listen, but because you were shaking too hard to keep standing there. You slammed the door behind you and leaned against it, your breath coming fast and uneven.

The weed was already stashed in the bottom drawer of your desk. You lit the joint with trembling hands, pulling in the first sharp inhale until the edges of your panic dulled just a little. But the knot in your chest stayed.

You hated yourself for it, but you reached for the razor hidden inside an old pencil case. Just a little. Just enough to feel something else. You hated how automatic it was now.

When it was over, you curled into yourself on the bed, staring at the ceiling, tears blurring the light fixture into a shapeless smear. Your phone sat heavy in your palm before you even realized you’d picked it up.

You: “Can you come get me?”

It took Kevin less than a minute to reply.

Kevin: “Where are your parents?” You: “Downstairs. I’ll sneak out.” Kevin: “I’m on my way.”

You slipped your hoodie over your head, pulling the sleeves low to hide your arms. The window slid open without a sound—you’d done this enough to know which parts creaked. The night air hit your face like cold water, and you felt the smallest flicker of relief when you saw the faint glow of headlights turning onto your street.