Chapter Text
Timon wakes up to the sound of bottles clinking. His mother is searching for the last few drops of whatever she was drinking last night. He doesn’t move, staring up at the stained ceiling of the van. The air is thick with old booze, cigarette smoke, and the sour smell of unwashed clothes. His stomach growls, but he ignores it. Breakfast isn’t an option.
He pulls on yesterday’s hoodie, yanks his backpack over his shoulder, and shoves open the van’s sliding door. The early morning light is gray and dull, the world still half-asleep. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye. His mother won’t notice he’s gone.
The walk to school is long enough to clear his head. He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. People avoid looking at him, but he’s used to that. It’s not just the way he dresses — the hoodie with the frayed cuffs, the shoes held together with duct tape — it’s his eyes. It has always been his eyes.
By the time he reaches the school parking lot, kids are already clustered into groups. He walks past them, head down.
First period drags. Second period, worse. He doesn’t try to keep up with the lesson. The teacher doesn’t call on him anymore. Somewhere between last year and now, they all just gave up.
Lunch is the same as always. He sits alone, staring at his tray of whatever the cafeteria is calling food today. Across the room, the popular kids laugh too loudly, shoving each other. A teacher passes by and pauses.
“You doing okay, Timon?” she asks. Her voice is soft, careful.
He grips his fork tighter. “Yeah.”
She hesitates, then nods and moves on. He knows that look — pity, or maybe guilt. Either way, it doesn’t feed him.
He doesn’t go straight back to the van. Instead, he walks. Past the gas station where he sometimes steals a snack when the hunger gets bad enough. Past the closed-down laundromat with broken windows. Past houses with real walls, real beds, real families inside.
By the time he reaches the empty lot, the sun is starting to set. He kicks at a rock, watching it bounce across the cracked pavement. There’s nothing here but weeds and old memories.
(Memories of better days, of things that never lasted, of laughter that’s now just an echo in the wind. Memories of faces long gone, of hands that used to hold him close, now nothing more than ghosts in a place that’s forgotten what it means to belong — Stop)
Eventually, he heads back. The van is exactly as he left it — cramped, cluttered, and cold. His mom is slumped in the front seat, her breathing slow and steady. Passed out. He doesn’t wake her.
(The weight of her silence fills the van, heavier than any words could. Stop, she’s somewhere far away — lost in a haze that keeps her from seeing him, even when he’s right in front of her — Stop)
He curls up in the back, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. Outside, streetlights flicker. In the distance, sirens wail. Something about them sounds different tonight. It’s the kind of sound that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a warning he doesn’t quite understand but feels deep in his bones.
He closes his eyes.
Tomorrow will be the same.
Until it isn’t.