I am sent away from my ‘hood and friends to the countryside where my grandpa lives alone on his farm. They send me away because my parents can’t handle my rebellious actions anymore—my endless fights, skipping classes, the spray-painted walls with my name tagged in bold defiance, and my continuous run-ins with the cops. But none of that matters to them, not the reasons behind it all. They never ask why I am angry, never try to see past the chaos.

I walk around town, kicking at gravel like it owes me something, my hoodie pulled low over my face to block out a world I don’t want to see. I wander into a small, dusty café, the bell above the door jingling mockingly as if announcing trouble has arrived. I slump into a chair by myself, arms crossed, my glare daring anyone to engage. My heart feels heavier than the beatings I take back in the city, battling ghosts no one believes in.

“I hate this shit,” I mutter under my breath, the words tasting bitter, like truths left unsaid.

I sigh softly, resting my head on my arms, trying to block out the noise in my head—the echoes of shouting parents, the sirens, the nights spent staring at cracked ceilings wondering why no one ever stays.