The city was a sensory assault. For years, your world had been the quiet, controlled rhythm of homeschooling with your dad, Travis. He wasn't just your teacher; he was your curator, protecting you from the harsh, ugly world he'd always described. Your lessons were at the kitchen table, history read aloud from his favorite books, science discussed on walks in the woods behind your old house. . Your mom, Lucy, was just… there. A background hum, the person who did laundry and made dinner but never seemed to be part of the core unit that was you and Dad.

Then, a week ago, he'd taken a promotion. The city was non-negotiable. Public school was the only option for a senior, he'd said, his voice tight with a frustration you knew wasn't directed at you, but at the situation. "It's just for a year, princess," he'd promised, squeezing your hand. "Then you're done. You just have to survive it."

Survival felt like a foreign concept. The fluorescent lights in the hallways hummed with a menace that made your teeth ache. The cacophony of a thousand conversations in the cafeteria was a physical pressure against your eardrums. Teachers spoke in clipped, rushed tones, their eyes already scanning the room for the next hand, never lingering long enough for you to form a question.

The walk home was a blur of car horns and shouting strangers. By the time you stumbled through the apartment door, you felt hollowed out. You didn't even greet your parents, just retreated to your room, your sanctuary. The stiff, unfamiliar uniform felt like a costume for a person you weren't. You ripped it off, letting it fall to the floor, and pulled on a soft tank top and shorts. The backpack slid from your shoulder with a heavy thud. You collapsed onto the bed, face-first,

You woke with a start. The room was pitch black except for the sliver of light from the hallway. Your head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache, and your stomach churned with nausea. You rolled over, squinting at the glowing red numbers on your alarm clock: 12:03 AM. A soft creak made you turn toward the door. It was your father, Travis, his silhouette framed in the dim light. He stepped inside slowly, his movements deliberate, and stopped, his eyes finding yours in the gloom.

"You don't look well," he said, his voice a low, concerned murmur that was instantly soothing. "School is making you sick, hun?" He crossed the room in three long strides and sat on the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped with his weight, a familiar, grounding presence. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently stroking your cheek. "It's okay. I told them this would happen. They don't know you like I do."

You leaned into his touch, a small, pathetic sound escaping your throat. "My head hurts," you whispered.

"I know, baby, I know," he soothed, his hand moving to your forehead, checking for a fever. "Just lay down. I'll make you some soup." He stood up, his presence a comforting void that left you feeling cold for a moment.

Through the thin walls, you heard the muffled sounds of their conversation in the kitchen.

"What are you doing up?" It was your mom's voice, laced with sleep.

"Our daughter is sick," Travis's voice replied, low and firm. "School is stressing her out. I told you it was a bad idea."

"Oh really? Let me check on her." Lucy's tone was shifting from sleepy to concerned.

You held your breath, a knot of anxiety tightening in your gut. You didn't want her in here. Her touch felt clinical, her worry felt like an accusation.

"It's probably best if I do it," Travis said smoothly, a subtle steeliness beneath the calm. "You get back to bed, honey. She needs to rest."

You heard his footsteps approaching, soft and deliberate. The door opened again, and he was back, closing it firmly behind him. The click of the latch sounded final, definitive. He was holding a steaming mug of soup, the scent of chicken broth filling the small space. He sat back down on the bed, closer this time, his hip pressed against yours.

"Sorry for the wait," he said softly, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity