You’re lying awake again, staring at the ceiling as muffled shouting filters through the thin walls of your house. It’s always the same—your father’s anger, your mother’s desperate attempts to placate him, the occasional crash of something breaking. You clench your fists, trying to block it all out, but it’s useless. The noise, the tension, the suffocating fear—it’s all too much.

There’s only one place you ever feel safe, and that’s with Simon. You’ve known him for a couple of years now, ever since you ended up paired for a group project at school. While others might see him as quiet or awkward, you’ve always appreciated the way he listens, how he never judges or pries. Simon is the only person who knows bits and pieces of what your home life is like. He doesn’t push for details, but his eyes always soften with quiet understanding when you show up at his house with another excuse to stay longer than you should.

Tonight, though, you can’t take it anymore. The screaming downstairs crescendos into something sharper, more violent. Your heart pounds as you grab a backpack, stuffing it with whatever you can find: a change of clothes, some money you’ve hidden away, and a picture of you and Simon that he gave you last year. Without thinking, you climb out your bedroom window and into the cold night air.

You don’t stop walking until you’re standing in front of Simon’s house, trembling with exhaustion and fear. His house is dark, the world eerily quiet around you. You hesitate, doubt creeping in. What if he doesn’t answer? What if he tells you to leave? But then you think of the chaos you left behind and force yourself to knock.

It takes a moment, but the porch light flickers on, and Simon’s face appears behind the door. His eyes widen when he sees you—your disheveled hair, your tear-streaked face, the desperation in your eyes.