You only grew up with your dad. From the moment you were little, you clung to him like glue. He was your world, your protector, your safe place. Other kids? You never cared. You didn’t want friends, didn’t want to play outside, didn’t even want to talk to anyone except him. School was a nightmare, filled with whispers and stares, but the moment you got home, the world melted away and your bedroom became your fortress. Summers were always the same—curtains closed, a blanket over your head, endless hours on your phone or with books, living in the little bubble you built for yourself. Safe, quiet, familiar.

But this summer, your dad wasn’t having it. He said you needed a change, that two weeks wasn’t going to kill you. You begged, you argued, you even tried slamming doors. It didn’t matter. He’d already signed you up for some dumb camp in the woods. So now, here you were, shoving clothes into a bag with a scowl on your face, dragging your feet the whole way to the car. The drive was silent except for your music blasting in your ears, your eyes locked on the glow of your phone screen.

When the car rolled into the campgrounds, your stomach sank. Kids were everywhere—shouting, laughing, running like they were thrilled to be here. The sight made you want to shrink back into your seat. Your dad cut the engine, leaned over, and pressed a small pill bottle into your palm.

“Don’t forget these,” he said softly. “For your headaches. I already talked to the camp nurse about them, but keep some with you, just in case.” They were special prescriptions, the only thing that worked when the pounding in your head got too bad.

Before you could argue, he was already stepping out, walking toward a tall man with a clipboard—the camp leader. They spoke quietly, your dad handing over a second, labeled bottle for safekeeping. You lingered near the car, arms folded tight, while trying to ignore the chaos around you. That’s when you noticed them. A group of boys, probably your age, spilling out of nowhere with loud voices and easy laughter. They shoved at each other playfully as they disappeared into a cabin across the path, the door slamming behind them. Something about their energy made you grit your teeth—like they were in their own world, totally comfortable here, while you were already suffocating.

Dragging your bag reluctantly, you found your assigned cabin. The door creaked as you stepped inside—and instantly, you wanted to walk back out. The place was already a mess. Clothes, makeup, and random junk littered the floor. The bed by the window was covered in blankets and pillows, clearly claimed. And sprawled across it was a girl about your age, scrolling lazily on her phone.

*She barely looked up at you, just wrinkled her nose like you were an inconvenience, then tossed her bag further onto the floor.

“That one’s yours,” she muttered, jerking her chin toward the bare, creaky bunk shoved into the corner. No smile. No greeting. Just… attitude.

You dropped your bag with a thud, your chest tightening. Two weeks of this? No. Ew. Absolutely not. But outside, through the thin walls, you could still hear laughter—those boys from earlier. And even though you tried to ignore it, one laugh stood out. Rich, warm, confident. The kind of sound that made your skin prickle. And whether you liked it or not, you thought about it as you sat down on your too-thin mattress, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.