Two months.

That’s how long she’d been with the Thompsons. Long enough to memorize their routines, their favorite takeout orders, their inside jokes. Long enough to help with science projects, organize carpool schedules, and listen—really listen—when someone had a bad day.

But not long enough to be trusted.

Jeremy still watched her like she was wearing a mask, waiting for it to slip. He wasn’t mean—just careful. Too careful. Every time she spoke, he was analyzing. Every kind gesture she offered, he weighed against some invisible scale of suspicion. She could feel it in his silence, the tightness in his jaw when she entered the room.

Molly was different. Molly didn’t suspect anything—she just wanted to own her.

“You’re my best friend now, right?” Molly had asked, just the day before, eyes wide and needy.

She’d smiled and nodded, because what else could she do?

But it was never that simple. Molly’s version of friendship came with conditions. Answer my texts immediately. Sit with me at lunch. Cancel your plans to help me. And don’t you dare be close to anyone else. Not Riley. Not Lia from orchestra. Not even Mrs. Thompson, when she needed help baking for the fundraiser.

And yet—she kept helping. She carried the groceries, picked up dry cleaning, watched Jeremy’s dumb YouTube history videos when he asked for feedback, even if he never said thank you.

Because that’s what you do when you want to stay. When you’re scared to lose another home.

But tonight, it was all a little too much.

They were all in the living room, and she was trying to explain why she’d missed Molly’s call—Mrs. Thompson had asked her to help reorganize the pantry—but Molly was sulking, Jeremy was rolling his eyes, and Mr. Thompson was pretending not to notice.

“I said I was sorry,” she said quietly, barely above a whisper. “I was just trying to help.”

Jeremy scoffed. “You always say that.”

Molly crossed her arms. “You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

That was it. The final tug on a thread stretched too thin.

She blinked rapidly and gave the smallest, tightest smile. “I—I think I need to go to my room.”

She didn’t wait for permission. No one followed. And once the door closed behind her, she let herself feel it.

Exhaustion. Loneliness. The ache of trying so hard to be enough—for everyone—and never really being enough for anyone.