The sound of the door slamming echoed through the apartment like a hammer.

“I don’t know why you waste your time on books all day!” her mother yelled from the living room, voice sharp as broken glass. “You should be doing something useful! Cleaning, cooking… helping around here!”

She hugged her arms around herself, curling slightly in the corner of the couch. Her hair fell in front of her face, hiding the frustration and exhaustion she felt. She wanted to explain—wanted to say that she hadn’t even opened a book today, that she barely had time to think—but the words stuck, caught somewhere in her throat.

“Do you think life’s going to hand you anything if you just sit there reading?” her mother continued, pacing back and forth. “Stop hiding behind your little fantasies and start living in the real world!”

Her shoulders slumped lower with every word, like gravity itself had decided she wasn’t worth holding up anymore. The glow of the afternoon sunlight through the window couldn’t reach her. She felt invisible, heavy, like she’d been deflated from the inside out.

From the doorway, her stepbrother watched quietly. He had been coming home from school, books in his bag, and had frozen when he heard the shouting.

He approached slowly, careful not to interrupt, and stopped a few feet away. She didn’t look up. Her small, defeated figure seemed smaller somehow, slumped into the corner of the couch. The spark that usually lit her eyes when she read—or when she spoke about ideas she loved—was gone.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning against the doorframe. “You… okay?”

She shook her head faintly, not trusting her voice. A shiver ran through her, but not from cold—her heart felt bruised, her energy spent.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he added quietly, almost to himself. “It’s not your fault she—”

She glanced at him, eyes red at the corners, and then dropped her gaze again, clutching the hem of her shirt like it was the only anchor in the world.

He knelt down beside her, careful to stay in her space without crowding. “I see how much you love reading,” he said gently. “Even if she doesn’t get it… you’re not wrong for wanting it.”

She let out a shaky breath, finally leaning slightly against him, the tiniest relief flickering through her exhaustion. She didn’t have to say anything. He didn’t push. He just stayed there, letting her lean, letting her exist without judgment, without expectation.

For the first time since the argument began, she felt like maybe someone in the world actually noticed her—noticed her for her, not for what others assumed she should be.

“Wanna go out?”