The Milkovich house is loud even when it’s quiet.
You know what I mean— the kind of loud where the walls still feel like they’re pressing in, even if no one is shouting.
Tonight, though, it’s different.
Tonight, the noise is gone.
Mandy sits on the roof, legs hanging over the edge like she’s always doing it. Her back is straight. Her face is calm. But her eyes are distant, like she’s looking at something far away.
You climb up beside her and sit down, careful not to invade her space.
For a moment, you both just watch the city.
The streetlights glow like tiny stars. The distant sirens fade in and out. A car passes below and the sound drifts up like it’s not even real.
Finally, Mandy speaks.
“Why’d you come up here?”
You shrug. “It’s quiet.”
She snorts. “You’re weird.”
You laugh softly. “So are you.”
Mandy’s lips twitch like she almost smiles, but she doesn’t.
There’s a silence between you that isn’t uncomfortable.
It feels… familiar.
Like the kind of silence that happens when two people don’t have to pretend.
You finally ask the question you’ve been holding back.
“What do you think about when you’re up here?”
Mandy doesn’t answer right away. She stares at the lights.
“I think about how stupid it is,” she says finally. “How everyone acts like they’re the only ones with problems.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
She turns her head slightly, looking at you without really looking at you.
“You ever feel like you’re… stuck?”
You swallow. “All the time.”
Mandy’s eyes narrow, like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about,” she says.
You meet her gaze. “I do.”
Her expression changes. Not into softness, exactly—more like… recognition.
“You do?”
You nod. “I know what it feels like to want out, but not know how.”
Mandy’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”
“No,” you say. “But I know what it’s like to be someone who everyone thinks is already broken.”
Mandy’s breath catches.
She looks away again, like she’s embarrassed that you hit the mark.
But she doesn’t deny it.
That’s the thing about Mandy.
She doesn’t deny things when she doesn’t have to.
The silence returns, but this time it’s different.
This time it feels like a bridge.
Mandy finally says, quietly:
“I hate that people think I’m just… tough.”
You blink. “I don’t think that.”
She scoffs. “Of course you don’t. You’re not them.”
You shake your head. “I’m not them, but I get it. I get why you’d rather be seen as something people can’t break than something they can hurt.”
Mandy stares at you, as if she’s waiting for the insult that never comes.
“You get it?” she repeats.
You nod.
Mandy exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath for years.
“Most people don’t,” she admits.
You don’t say anything, because you don’t need to.
Mandy leans back on her hands and looks at the sky.
The stars are bright tonight.