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The house is too quiet.
At night, when the lights go out and even the humming of the refrigerator seems to disappear, silence unfurls like a heavy velvet curtain, pressing against my ears until I feel almost deaf. I can hear my own heartbeat then—steady, defiant, reminding me that I am alive even when I would rather dissolve into the dark.
I lie on my back in bed, staring at the ornate molding on my ceiling. It’s supposed to look elegant, but all I can think of is how the shadows carve shapes out of it—grotesque, half-formed creatures waiting for me to blink. I should be asleep. Girls like me are meant to sleep easily, faces untroubled, breathing like clockwork. That’s what my mother says: rest well, darling, beauty needs its upkeep.
But I haven’t been sleeping much lately.
There’s this constant pull, like I’ve been stitched to something I can’t see. No—someone.
I think of Natalie.
The thought arrives suddenly, as it always does, a spark catching in dry grass. I tell myself not to, but there’s no stopping it anymore. She comes into my head the way a song does—uninvited, relentless, refusing to leave until I’ve hummed myself hoarse.
She shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t be this present. And yet—
The memory rises, unbidden: that night at the party, when I was halfway out the door, heels in hand, mascara smudged. I hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place, hadn’t wanted the drinks or the music or the too-loud laughter. I just wanted to slip away unseen.
And then—her.
“Here,” she said, and I looked up to find Natalie standing in front of me, offering her jacket like a knight might offer armor. Except hers smelled like cigarettes and beer, like nights I’m not supposed to live. And she looked at me like she wasn’t supposed to care but couldn’t help it.
I took it. I couldn’t not. The sleeves were far too long and the zipper broken, but it was warm. And she was warm.
“Thanks, Nat,” I murmured, and her eyes flickered like she didn’t know what to do with the sound of her own name on my lips.
I gave the jacket back two days later, folded carefully, like returning a relic. She shrugged, stuffed it into her bag like it was nothing. But I saw the way she wore it that night anyway, cigarette dangling from her fingers, smoke curling like incense around her head.
And I thought: what have I done?
Because ever since then, she has been there. In the hallways, with that swagger that looks like armor but might just be desperation. On the field, fierce and unafraid, but sometimes too quiet afterward, shoulders slumped. In the back row of class, doodling skulls while the teacher drones on.
And in me. Always in me, like a pulse.
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It isn’t that I want to think of her. Truly, it would be simpler not to. My life is already a fragile balancing act: smile when I’m expected to, laugh when it’s polite, swallow every wrong word before it escapes. My parents don’t need to know I sometimes skip my meds, or that I dream of shadows pacing the edges of my room.
But then Natalie shows up, and suddenly the mask feels heavier than it ever has.
Sometimes I catch her watching me, though she pretends not to. She has this way of looking sidelong, like she doesn’t care, but her eyes are sharp—sharp enough to cut. I should look away when it happens, but I don’t. I can’t.
It makes something inside me ache, the way she studies me like I’m not untouchable after all.
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In practice today, Coach barked at me for not pushing hard enough during drills. I wanted to shout that my legs felt like lead, that my chest ached, that I couldn’t keep pretending I was fine. But then I saw Natalie, hair damp, sweat glinting along her jaw, moving with that effortless recklessness she has.
And I pushed harder.
Not because Coach told me to. Because Natalie was watching.
Afterward, when my breath came ragged and the world tilted a little, she handed me a water bottle without a word. Her fingers brushed mine—just barely—and I thought I might shatter from the force of it.
She looked away quickly, pretending she hadn’t done anything at all.
That’s what she does, isn’t it? Pretends. Pretends she doesn’t care, that nothing matters, that the world can’t touch her. But I see the cracks.
And I—God help me—I want to touch them.
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Later that night, in my notebook, I wrote:
The wolf bares its teeth not to bite, but to be known.
I don’t even know what I mean by it. Maybe that’s what Natalie is. All edge, all smoke and danger, but underneath—loneliness so sharp it could break your heart if you let it.
I think I want to let it.
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Still, I remind myself that this is impossible. Girls like her don’t want girls like me. Natalie is fire, and I am glass. One touch, and I’d melt to nothing.
And yet—
At the sleepover last week, when the others had finally fallen asleep, I drifted in that in-between state where you’re aware but weightless. I felt her beside me, her breath uneven, her body restless. And I swear—I swear—I heard her whisper something. My name, maybe. Or maybe just a dream.
I kept my eyes closed, afraid of breaking whatever spell had descended. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might wake the whole room.
I almost reached for her hand, lying so close to mine in the dark. Almost.
But “almost” is a word I have learned to live with.
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Sometimes, when I let myself imagine, I think about what it would be like if the silence broke. If she looked at me the way I look at her. If the world tilted and we were allowed to fall into each other without consequence.
But imagination is dangerous. My mother says girls like me are prone to fantasy, that I must learn discipline, composure. She doesn’t know the half of it.
Discipline won’t save me from Natalie.
And maybe I don’t want saving.
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The house is still silent. My parents asleep, the world outside dark and indifferent. I roll onto my side, hug my pillow to my chest, and let the thought of her fill the room. The jacket. The laugh that isn’t quite like anyone else’s. The way her eyes hold both fury and fragility, like the world has asked too much of her and she refuses to bow.
I know I should let it go. I know this path only leads to ruin.
But I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
So I close my eyes, and in the darkness, she is already there.
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There are certain rules to looking at someone when you’re not supposed to.
Rule one: never let your gaze linger too long.
Rule two: always have an excuse ready—pretend you were staring past them, or at the clock, or at the window.
Rule three: convince yourself it doesn’t matter, even when it does.
I am breaking all of them.
In class, when Natalie tips her chair back at a dangerous angle, arms folded across her chest, I can’t stop watching. The fluorescent lights catch in her hair, strands of pale blonde that should look ordinary but don’t. When she bites the inside of her cheek in concentration, it feels like a secret I was never meant to see.
In the hallways, she moves differently than everyone else—like the floor doesn’t deserve her steps, like she’s too much and not enough all at once. I should keep my distance, but my eyes betray me, drawn to her as though she carries gravity in her bones.
Even on the bus, when there are empty seats everywhere, I walk straight past them and sit beside her. Again.
Natalie glances at me, startled, but doesn’t tell me to move. Our knees brush once when the bus lurches around a corner. Just the barest touch—cloth against cloth, skin beneath—but it jolts through me like a live wire.
I keep my expression smooth, my hands folded neatly in my lap. But my pulse is wild, thudding in my throat. I wonder if she can hear it.
She taps her knuckle against the window in a rhythm that makes no sense, and I pretend I don’t feel the heat of her thigh against mine.
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Later, I open my notebook again.
The wolf bares its teeth not to harm, but to be seen.
Sometimes the storm doesn’t want to destroy. Sometimes it only wants to be held.
A name whispered in the dark might be real, or it might be a dream. How do you tell the difference when both hurt the same?
The words look foolish on the page, melodramatic, but I can’t stop writing them. They spill out half-formed, like fragments of a language I don’t know but am desperate to speak.
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I test the boundaries in small ways.
“Nice necklace,” I tell her one afternoon, gesturing at the little silver charm she wears, tarnished but stubbornly clinging to its shine. She blinks at me, suspicious, then scoffs like she doesn’t care.
But I see the faintest curve of her mouth afterward. The way her shoulders ease, just a little.
It makes me glow all the way home.
Another day, I catch her slipping behind after practice, slower than usual, her breathing harsh. She looks exhausted, like the weight she carries is too much even for her sharp edges. I hand her a water bottle and murmur, “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer. Just takes the bottle and looks away.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter, but the silence stings anyway.
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The truth is, I am afraid.
Afraid because Natalie is too wild, too sharp, too untamed. She belongs to cigarette smoke and midnight laughter, not to the fragile, ordered world I inhabit.
Why would she look twice at someone like me?
Still, I can’t help but notice her everywhere. The way she laughs—loud, unrestrained—like she doesn’t care who hears. The way she goes quiet when she thinks no one is watching, shoulders hunching as though against some invisible weight.
She is chaos wrapped in skin, and I—God help me further—I want to touch her.
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And yet, nothing breaks. The silence stretches on, fragile as glass, dangerous as fire.
So I look when I shouldn’t. I write words I’ll never say. And when our knees touch on the bus, or when her breath brushes my cheek in the dark, I hold still, as though stillness might keep the world from changing.
Because if it did—if the silence shattered—I don’t know what would remain.
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The night begins with shouting.
My mother’s voice sharp, clipped, each word an indictment. My father’s silence heavier than thunder, filling the room until it presses against my ribs. They do not listen. They do not see. Their daughter is a vessel to them, breakable porcelain to polish, not a living creature with cracks that ache.
I flee before the fight can finish, tears stinging hot down my cheeks. I lock my door. I curl against my pillow and sob until the sound turns ugly, raw.
For a moment, I imagine the phone ringing. I imagine Natalie’s voice on the other end—rough, impatient, pretending not to care. “Hey. You good?”
But the phone does not ring. Of course it doesn’t.
Did she think of me tonight, even for a second? Would she have come if she knew?
I bury my face in my pillow and whisper no, no, no, because wanting is dangerous.
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The next day at practice, I see her laughing with Van. Their heads tipped together, shoulders brushing, joy spilling loud and easy.
It cuts me open.
The sharpness of it surprises me—jealousy is an emotion I’ve never worn before, but here it slices like glass. I tell myself Natalie deserves this, deserves someone free and fearless like Van, someone who could match her sharpness with their own.
Not me. Never me.
So I turn my face, put on my perfect smile, and tell my legs to run faster.
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Later, in my journal, the words crawl jagged across the page:
She is smoke rising, uncatchable.
She belongs to the air, to laughter, to anyone braver than I.
I am porcelain. I will break her fingers if she tries to hold me.
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At a team gathering a week later, the music hums soft through the walls, the kind that blurs edges without drowning them. I find myself standing beside Natalie on the couch, too close, the air between us charged.
If I lean back, just a little, my shoulder will rest against hers.
I imagine it: the warmth, the quiet relief of contact. But at the last second, fear yanks me away. I fold myself smaller, sit straighter, laugh at something Jackie says across the room.
Natalie glances at me once, unreadable. My chest aches with the space I forced between us.
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That night, I dream her hand brushes mine. A touch barely there, tender as air. In the dream, I do not flinch. In the dream, I close my fingers around hers.
I wake trembling, my palm empty.
The sheets feel like a grave around me.
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So I bury it.
I bury her in silence, in all the places where I might otherwise break. I polish my mask until it shines brighter than glass: polite smile, nods in class, perfect posture in practice. I become the version of myself my parents demand, the version that does not ache, does not want, does not dream of hands she cannot hold.
I tell myself it will fade. That I can starve this hunger until it dies.
But Natalie keeps breaking through.
The sound of her laugh drifts across the field, rich and alive. The brush of her sleeve against mine in the hallway sends lightning through my veins. Her eyes, when they catch mine for a second too long, threaten to undo every careful stitch I’ve sewn into myself.
She doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
And I—I cannot let myself hope.
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My journal is the only place the cracks show:
She stands in the doorway, and the light bends toward her.
I dream her name into the dark.
Nobody may hold her in her sleep.
But perhaps I can haunt her in the spaces between.