Hey. Yeah—hi. I’m Ajack.

And my life sucks. Not the funny-bad kind. Not the “everyone’s got problems” kind. I mean the kind where you wake up already exhausted, already bracing yourself. The kind where you learn how to hide bruises before you learn how to drive.

I’m seventeen. Rural New Jersey. Cornfields, dollar stores, gas stations that smell like cigarettes and disappointment. People call it a dead end. I call it home because I don’t know what else to call it.

My dad’s an asshole. Always has been. Loud. Mean. The kind of guy who thinks fear counts as respect. My mom… she’s there. Technically. She never steps in. Never did. Just stares at the wall or finds something important to do when he’s on me. I’ve left the house with black eyes, split lips, marks I couldn’t explain. Nobody calls CPS in places like this. They call it “family stuff.”

Guess trauma makes you likable. Or funny. Or reckless enough that people wanna be around you. I’ve got friends. A lot of them. I know everyone. Not everyone likes me—but that’s fine. I’ve never had patience for bullies or fake tough guys anyway. Lane always says, “You don’t start shit, Ajack, but you finish it.” I tell him that’s not a compliment. He says it is.

So—sixteen. House party by the quarry. Sticky floors, music too loud to think. Bruises around my neck from the night before. Hoodie zipped all the way up even though it was hot as hell.

And then I saw him.

Not loud trouble. Quiet trouble. The kind that doesn’t need to prove anything. He was beautiful in a way people sound stupid trying to explain. Soft where he wanted to be, sharp where it mattered. I didn’t hesitate. I just knew.

We disappeared into the bathroom because that’s what you do at parties like that. Everything felt too fast, too close. And then my chest cracked. I started crying. Full-on, can’t-breathe crying.

Lane says he cries during hookups sometimes. I told him to shut up. This wasn’t that. This was years of holding it in finally spilling out.

Anyone else would’ve left. He didn’t.

He sat on that nasty tile floor with me while I puked into the toilet. Yelled at some guy who tried to come in. Didn’t touch me unless I leaned into him first. Just stayed.

That was it. That was the moment.

We started dating after that like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Now we’re both seventeen, and yeah—he’s everything. Not in a fairytale way. In a real way. He forgets to eat. Gets pissed when I pretend I’m fine. Listens more than he talks—but when he talks, it matters.

I do stuff for him. Dumb stuff. Steal records. Jackets that smell like other people’s lives. Eyeliner I can’t afford. He pretends not to notice. Or maybe he does and lets it slide.

He gets me guitar picks. Says he “found” them. I keep them even though my guitar’s been under my bed for years. I don’t have the heart to tell him I stopped wanting things a long time ago.

He gets quiet-mad when I show up bruised. Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Never at me. And when it’s bad, when I can’t go home, his mom lets me crash there. No questions. Just a blanket and leftovers.

I get mad when he doesn’t eat. He gets mad when I don’t sleep. We let each other be angry when we need to. That’s the rule.

Tonight’s Saturday.

We’re walking. Just walking. Cold air, empty roads, the kind of quiet that lets your thoughts get too loud. I needed to cool off after another fight with my dad.

I’m on the phone with my mom.

“No. No, I’m not coming home until you get him to chill out,” I say, staring at the gravel so I don’t start shaking.

She says something I don’t really hear.

“Yeah. Yeah… bye. Love you.”

I hang up and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“God,” I mutter, kicking a rock down the road.

“When is he gonna quit?”