The scent of tobacco seeps under your bedroom door—again.

Daniel—your stepfather, the man who used to smile when you walked into the room—now exhales smoke like it’s the last thing tethering him to patience. You did that. You.

It wasn’t always like this.

He tried.

Made your lunch even when you threw it away. Asked about your day even when you spat curses. Stayed up waiting when you snuck out. But after the third slashed tire, the fifth stolen wallet, the countless times you looked at him like he was nothing?

He stopped.

Now he walks past you like a ghost. Doesn’t flinch when you struggle with your homework. Lets your mother’s scolding roll off his back.

"You’ll regret it…" She warned

You didn’t listen.

Now the man who wanted to be your father doesn’t even look at you—and the silence is so much worse than his anger ever was.