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I heard the front door slam closed, the house, and everything in it, going still and silent.
Like nothing lived here.
Like, when they left, nothing did.
I blink my eyes awake, already blurry with tears. I sit up and swing my legs over the side, bowing my head and taking some deep breaths.
It’s early morning. I can tell by the blue hue of the light coming in through my balcony doors.
A tear catches on my lip, and I wipe it off with my hand. I still remember so many little things, growing up with them, that would never seem terrible on their own, but after years of conversations I felt like I was interrupting, occasions I wasn’t invited or welcome to, and affection that was so easily doled out between them that didn’t stretch to me… It all hurt. Everything hurt, and it kept piling up year after year until I stopped letting myself care anymore.
Or stopped showing that I cared.
I let out a sigh, tilting my head back, but then something catches my eye, and I look over, seeing a white bag on top of my bedside table. I narrow my eyes and reach over, picking up the worn paper sack that no longer felt crisp and new.
Is this…?
The bundle at the bottom of the bag fits in the palm of my hand, and I can smell the cinnamon bears before I even open it.
How did this get back in here? I threw the whole bag of candy out.
But now, black writing covers the front, and slowly, I unfold the bag and find a ray of light near me, reading the words.
Your parents never gave you anything sweet. That’s why you’re not.
I look over to my bedroom door, noticing it’s opened a crack. I’d closed and locked it when I went to bed.
Thoughts wash over me, but my heart isn’t beating fast. I should be mad. Someone came in here while I was asleep. Someone went through my trash.
Someone is trolling me on a paper bag.
But he’s not wrong. I rub my thumb over the letters.
The way it’s written. That’s why you’re not. It’s so childish but simple.
Standing up, I dump the contents back into the trash, but I save the bag, flattening it out and laying it on my chest of drawers. I don’t know if blaming my parents is a good enough reason for being such a miserable fucking person, but someone in this world gets me, and I’m not even offended they said I wasn’t sweet. I know I’m not, and someone understands why.
Leaving the room, I head downstairs, the wind in the trees surrounding the house like a perpetual waterfall in the background. I veer into the kitchen, quietly stepping to the sink to fill up a glass of water.
I stare out the window, the feathers on the chickens in the coop fluttering in the morning breeze.
I don’t want to go home. But I don’t want to stay here and be noticed, either, because their world is just a little worse with me in it. I’m not Jake Van der Berg’s problem.
I don’t even realize I’ve started to put the coffee filter in the machine until a hand reaches out and gently takes the package from me.
Looking up, I see my uncle. He stands next to me, emptying coffee grounds into the filter, and I expect him to still be tense. Fuming. In a bad mood, at least, because I’m too much trouble.
But he’s calm. And quiet. He scoops the coffee out of the bag and empties it into the machine, quietly closes the lid, and turns on the pot.
A gurgling sound starts as it begins to brew, and he picks up a coffee mug from the rack and sets it in front of himself.
“I’m going to go home,” I say quietly.
“You are home.” He sets a mug in front of me.
My chin trembles a little.
I turn my head away, not wanting him to see me cry again, but then I feel his fingers brush my hair behind my ear, and the gesture makes my eyes fall closed. It feels so good I want to fucking cry again.
