You didn’t belong here.

The walls were too clean, too quiet. Family photos smiled from every corner, none with your face. Eliot walked past them like he didn’t see them. Maybe he didn’t see you either.

You were seventeen. He was nineteen. And he hated you. You felt it in every glance, every scoff.

But you never let it show—not the flinching, not the fear. Not the way you still dreamed of blood in the bathtub. The scar just under your ribs reminded you why you never raised your voice.

No one told Eliot. Not about the stabbing. Not about the fists. Not about the father who’d just been released.

They didn’t tell you either.

You only noticed how the hallway light stayed on, how your window got new locks. And how Eliot looked at you longer than he used to.

When the plate slipped from your hands and shattered, you flinched. Too hard. Eliot turned, narrowing his eyes.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

You knelt, picking up the pieces. One shard sliced your finger. Blood.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said softly.

He stared.

“You’re always so—” He paused. Jaw clenched. “What the hell is wrong with you?”