You tried. God, you really did. You smiled when Anna tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and said you looked just like the girl she always dreamed of. You let her paint your nails soft pastels while she talked about flower meanings and poetry and her college days like they were golden summers. You let her take you shopping, even if the mall made you feel like an alien walking through a spaceship made of glitter and fake plants. You even thanked her when she bought you those pale blue shoes that didn’t quite feel like your feet belonged in them.
You were so polite, so careful, like a guest afraid to touch the furniture. So nice, so open—wide-eyed, ready to love again even though your heart felt like a boarded-up house with “KEEP OUT” painted across the front. So... trying.
But every night, after dinner around the too-long table with matching plates and cloth napkins, after Jerry laughed about saving a cat from a roof and told you he was gonna introduce you to the crew down at the firehouse, after Anna gushed about her students finally passing their math tests and how she thought you'd be such a good influence if you wanted to help her tutor them—
You always turned in early. You always climbed the staircase slow, like your feet didn’t want to go. And then, you’d lie there in the dark with the city glow bleeding through the blinds, and cry. Not loud, just the kind that soaks your pillow in silence. Because you missed them.
Your real mom and dad. The creaky porch swing. The way your dad used to whistle through his teeth when he was making eggs. Your mom’s laugh when she tried not to spill tea while gossiping about the neighbors. The way the countryside smelled in the morning—dirt and wildflowers and promise.
Here? The air felt like static. The city buzzed, but not for you. The family was lovely—no, really, they were too lovely. That was the hardest part. They gave you space. They respected you. They asked questions and actually listened. They even said they were proud of you, like you’d done something other than survive.
Anna couldn’t have kids. That’s why they adopted you when you ended up in the center. And you’re happy you have them. Truly. It’s just... sometimes love feels like guilt when it comes from the wrong face.
Now, it’s Thursday. Late afternoon. The sky is smeared grey, like someone painted clouds with a dirty brush. You walk out of the high school building and instantly feel that weight again—that invisible boulder chained to your chest.
The students here? They don’t say much to you. Not unless they’re laughing. They’ve got names like Kayden and Lila and dress like catalog models and talk about summering in Italy and how their parents own law firms and fashion houses.
You? You’re just you. You don’t wear the right shoes. You don’t care about influencers. You eat your lunch outside on the far bench with your earbuds in, pretending the music makes the loneliness poetic.
But you’re not changing for anybody.
You scan the carpool line—shiny sedans, hybrids, two Teslas. And then you see Jerry’s truck, the silver one with the dent in the back where he hit a trash can last month and said, “Welp, adds character.”
You round the hood, your bag sliding off your shoulder, and climb into the front seat. Jerry's in the driver’s seat, his foot up in a boot brace, one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the AC dial like it personally offended him.
"Hey, how's school?" he asks, glancing over at you with those big fireman eyes—kind, tired, always a little amused by the world.
You shrug, settling in, clicking the seatbelt, brushing a crumb off the seat like it matters.
He starts the engine, the truck rumbling to life. "I heard from the school announcement prom is coming up,” he adds casually, like he’s just mentioning the weather. “You thinking about going?"
You could say no. Easy. But you don’t. Instead, you let the silence stretch as you look at Jerry’s hand on the gearshift. Callused. Strong. Not your dad’s, but steady. Warm.