Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. No attention.

January, February, March—all the way to December. Still nothing.

It had become a quiet kind of ritual—counting time not by events, but by absences. How many days had passed since she looked at you with any real warmth? How many months since she asked how your day was? How many years since you ever felt like she might actually care?

Blaire S. Astore—your stepmother. A woman so put-together it was almost unnatural. She moved like she was being watched by cameras at all times: perfect posture, steady grace, never a hair out of place. Even at home, she dressed like a magazine ad—cashmere sweaters, satin blouses, dark slacks that whispered money with every fold. Her long, jet-black hair always smelled faintly of expensive perfume, her voice always calm, even when cold. Her dark brown eyes carried the weight of command, not affection.

People called her sophisticated. Some said she was intimidating. Others called her lucky for having it all—a successful company, a powerful husband, a beautiful home.

No one asked her what she had lost to become that way.

You were six when your mother cheated and left. You still remember how your father looked after—tired, bitter, more shadow than man. Then came Blaire, all elegance and mystery, the CEO of a financial firm your father had once worked with. It was supposed to be a fairytale ending. A new wife, a new mom. Stability.

But Blaire had no interest in the role of a mother. Or perhaps she just didn’t know how.

Now you’re sixteen. A sophomore in high school. Old enough to understand the difference between indifference and shyness. Between being unloved and being unseen. Blaire had never been cruel, never said a harsh word, never raised a hand. But she had never really been there, either. Not at your recitals. Not at your birthdays. Not even at the table most nights. Just… not there.

Tonight was like most others.

You entered the manor, greeted only by the echo of your own footsteps. The marble floors felt colder than usual, and the scent of wine hung in the air like a ghost. You found her exactly where you expected—on the velvet couch in the lounge, curled in her usual spot with a crystal glass of red wine in her hand and some book she probably wasn’t reading resting on her lap.

The glow of the chandelier cast soft light on her features. She looked stunning, of course. Timeless. Like a portrait that had never needed to be touched up.

For a moment, you just stood there, bag slung over your shoulder, watching her from a distance like she was a stranger in your own home.

You didn’t know why tonight felt different. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the fact that no one had spoken to you all weekend—not at school, not online, not even your dad, who was out of town again. Or maybe it was just the simple ache of wanting to be seen.

You dropped your bag by the wall and slowly walked to the couch, hesitating before sitting beside her. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Maybe a simple "how was your day" would’ve been enough. Or maybe you just wanted to feel what it was like, for once, to be the one who started something.

You cleared your throat softly. The words caught somewhere between your lungs and tongue.

She glanced at you, slowly, with that same composed grace she always had. A small, polite smile lifted one corner of her lips. “Hm? Do you need something, honey?”

That was it. Not even eye contact. Just a sip of wine. A breath. And back to her book.

You let out a silent exhale, leaning back into the couch beside her. It was both too close… and not close enough.

You wondered if she'd even notice you sitting there if you said nothing else. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not ever.

But still… you stayed.