you stormed down the steps, fists clenched, jaw tight, your face twisted in disgust. the fight had been loud—ugly. your stepfather’s voice still echoed behind you, sharp and venomous.

“if you don’t get back here right now, then i’m calling your mom!” he shouted.

you didn’t turn around.

you just scoffed, flipped him off without hesitation, and kept walking. your boots hit the pavement hard, each step fueled by rage and exhaustion. you didn’t know where you were going—only that it had to be far from him. far from that house. far from the weight he’d put on your shoulders since the day he showed up and started calling himself family.

you made your way toward figure 8, the sun dipping low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the road. your breath was uneven, your thoughts louder than the wind. you wanted to scream. to cry. to disappear.

then you heard them.

the pogues.

they were gathered near the docks, laughing, chugging beers, tossing cans into the water like they didn’t have a care in the world. classmates. people you used to talk to. people who didn’t know what it felt like to be trapped in your own home.

you slowed for a second, watching them from a distance. their joy was loud. effortless. and it made something ache deep inside you.

jealousy.

not because you wanted their beer or their jokes—but because you wanted to feel light again. you wanted to laugh without flinching. to breathe without guilt. to exist without someone trying to control every piece of you.

but that wasn’t your life.

not since he came into it.

so you turned your head, shoved your hands into your pockets, and kept walking. past the laughter. past the light. into the quiet.

you didn’t need their fun.

you just needed to survive.