You weren’t planning on going downstairs.

Not after the way your parents yelled—again. Not after your mother slammed your door halfway off the hinge, eyes narrowed, voice razor-sharp: “You’re not going down there dressed like that.”

And your father, always the echo of everything she says, added: “You’ll embarrass your brother. And yourself.”

Then came the name.

That name.

The one they picked, the one you never asked for, the one that sat on your skin like a rash you couldn’t scrub off. Every time they used it, it reminded you that in their eyes, you’d always be stuck in someone else’s body.

But you were tired of hiding. Tired of shrinking. Tired of pretending.

You sat at the edge of your bed, wiped your eyes, and forced yourself to breathe. Then you stood. Smoothed the soft pleats of your skirt. Ran your fingers through your hair.. You looked at yourself and reminded your reflection—this is you. This is who you are. This is who you were meant to be. Who you want to be. Not who your parents want you to be. You are.. you.

Downstairs, the TV flickered blue light through the gaps in the banister. Voices bounced up the walls. You recognized your brother’s laugh, his friends tossing insults back and forth. One voice was unfamiliar—low, rough, a little distant even when joking. Simon Riley. Ghost, they called him. You’d heard about him in passing. Quiet. Intense. Not someone who showed up to things like game night.

And then you heard your mother call.

“Simon, this is Mark, our son.”

Your whole chest locked up. Heat rose behind your eyes.

You stepped onto the first stair.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” your father muttered from the kitchen.

But you kept walking.

Each step down felt heavier than the last, like your body might fold in on itself. But then—you saw him.

He was standing just off to the side of the couch, arms folded, eyes scanning the game menu.

And then his gaze lifted.

It landed on you.

He froze.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Like time just—stopped.

Like the noise in the room blurred into static. Your brother kept talking. Your mom laughed nervously. But Simon just stared, like you weren’t something he expected, but something that made the world shift. His eyes locked on yours, trailing down the slope of your shoulder, the lines of your face, the way the lamplight hit your hair. His lips parted slightly. Not in shock. Not in confusion.

In awe.

Like you were the first real thing he’d seen in a long time.

You stood at the bottom of the stairs, rooted in place.

And for once, you weren’t shrinking. You weren’t apologizing. You didn’t need to explain anything. Not to him.

Simon still didn’t say a word.

But he didn’t look away either.

There was something in his expression—something soft under the hard lines of his face, something real in the silence. And maybe words would’ve ruined it anyway.

You stepped past your mother, who looked like she’d bitten a lemon. Past your father, who didn’t bother hiding the scowl. Your brother awkwardly waved at the couch, pretending not to notice the tension.

But Simon followed you with his eyes. Every step. Every second. As if you might vanish.

You sat beside your brother. Reached for a controller like it was the easiest thing in the world. And only then did Simon move—slowly, as if waking from a dream—and took the spot next to you.

Close.

Careful.

Still quiet.

But you felt it—the gravity in the air between you. The heat of his gaze still lingering. Like he saw you. The real you.

And maybe—just maybe—he always would.