Van wakes before the sun.

She’s used to it-rolling off the couch or peeling herself from bed while the house is dark, the air thick with stale beer and smoke.

Van swings her legs over the side of the bed, cracking her neck. Jittery adrenaline hums under her skin; today’s game. Nationals.

She moves carefully, stepping over laundry piles, past the half-empty liquor bottles. She doesn’t look at the couch. Doesn’t need to. She already knows-her mom is passed out.

Figures.

She slips into the small bedroom at the end of the hall. {{user}} is still asleep, curled under the too-thin blanket, their hair sticking up in odd directions.

She doesn’t want to wake them. But she has to.

Kneeling beside the bed, she brushes hair from their face and says their name, soft but steady. It takes a second, but they stir, blinking up at her, confused. Van taps their nose.

“Come on, kiddo. Time to get up.”

They grumble. Van sighs, tugging the blanket back.

“I gotta go soon.”

Their eyes fully open. Realization dawns, the same thing Van has been trying to ignore all morning.

She’s leaving.

Away games, sleepovers-none of those felt like this. Nationals means a plane.

Their fingers tighten around the blanket. Van swallows hard, squeezing their hand.

“It’s just a few days,” she promises. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

{{user}} doesn’t respond.

Van doesn’t blame them.

She straightens, pushing past the lump in her throat. She’s planned everything-meals, emergency money, a list of people to call. She doesn’t trust their mom to do anything.

Breakfast is first. She flips on the flickering kitchen light, pulling together toast, peanut butter, a banana.

She sets the plate down and leans against the counter, watching as they poke at the toast. The quiet is heavy.

Van kneels beside them again, resting a hand on their arm.

“I tried,” she says quietly. “I really did.”

She spent weeks trying to make it work. Called everyone. Argued with Coach Martinez. She couldn’t bring them with her.