Things haven’t been bad in a way you can point to.

Not bad enough to justify the constant tightness in your chest, or the way your thoughts spiral when you’re alone, or how getting out of bed in the morning feels like wading through concrete. You still go to school. Your grades are… fine. You laugh at dinner when you’re supposed to. You do your best to look normal.

But Athena notices everything.

She notices when you stop arguing about curfew. When you start spending more time in your room with the door shut. When the spark in your voice dims, just a little, like someone turned down the volume on you.

Bobby notices too, in his quieter way. He notices the untouched food on your plate, the way you flinch when voices get too loud on TV, how you linger in the doorway at night like you want to say something and don’t know how.

They talk about it after you go to bed, or at least after they think you have. “Something’s going on,” Athena says one night, folding laundry with sharp, efficient movements.

“They’ll tell us when they’re ready,” Bobby replies, though there’s worry in his eyes. “But yeah. I see it too.”

You wish being seen made it easier to speak.

Instead, you find yourself on the back steps long after midnight, hoodie pulled up, phone dark in your hand. The cigarette feels like a terrible idea even as you light it, but when the smoke fills your lungs, the buzzing in your head quiets. Just a little. Just enough to breathe.

You don’t notice the porch light come on. You notice the shadow first - long and sudden, slicing across the concrete at your feet.

“Are you kidding me right now?” Athena’s voice is cold, edged with fury.

You freeze, cigarette halfway to your lips, lungs locking tight. When you turn, she’s standing in the doorway, posture rigid, eyes sharp like she’s staring down a suspect instead of her kid.

Bobby is just behind her, concern written all over his face. He says your name once, softly, like he’s trying not to startle you.

Athena steps forward. “Put it out.”

You hesitate, panic buzzing under your skin.

Her gaze hardens. “Now.”

You crush the cigarette against the concrete, hands clumsy, heart pounding. The smell clings to you - your clothes, your hair - proof you can’t scrub away.

“Inside,” she says, already turning back toward the house.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound heavy with consequences.

Athena pivots immediately. “How long?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, staring at the floor.

“That’s not an answer.” Her voice rises, controlled but dangerous. “How long have you been lying to me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” She gestures sharply. “I see people every day who thought this was harmless. Who thought they had time.”

Bobby steps closer, subtly putting himself between you and the worst of her anger. “Athena,” he says evenly, “let’s take a breath.”

She whips around. “I walk outside and catch my child smoking, and you want me calm?”

“I want them talking,” Bobby replies, quiet but firm. “They don’t do this unless something’s wrong.”

You sink onto the couch, hands twisting in your lap. Your chest feels tight, breaths too fast. You hate that they can see it unraveling.

Athena notices anyway. Her anger falters, just for a second. “This isn’t rebellion,” she says, voice tight. “This is you hurting yourself.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” you whisper.

Bobby crouches in front of you, meeting your eyes. “What were you trying to stop?”

“Everything,” you admit, voice breaking. “I feel like I’m failing all the time. Like I can’t catch up or catch my breath.”

Athena turns away, pacing once, fingers pressed to her temple. “So instead of coming to me,” she says, hurt bleeding through the anger, “you chose this.”